A Dress for the Wicked

by Autumn Krause

  “That’s the city for you.” Tristan sighed and shook his head. “In one sense, it’s nice because no one really cares about you, so you get to be and do whatever you want. But it’s also terrible because, well—no one really cares about you.”

  The man from behind the bar came up to our table, his huge arms folded across his barrel chest and his dour gaze flitting from me to Tristan and back again.

  “If you sit, you order,” he growled.

  “I know, Grayson,” Tristan said. “Have I ever just sat without ordering? I’m your best customer!”

  “My best customer who always orders a half pint of the cheapest beer available. Do you think that half pints pay for this place?”

  “Be fair. Do you think a reporter’s salary pays for such luxuries as full pints? But look. I’ve brought a pretty face with me this time. That automatically raises your stock, because . . .” Tristan winced and gestured to the dour-faced men gathered around the bar. Grayson didn’t laugh, but he uncrossed his arms and nodded.

  “So, what’ll it be?”

  “Two teas today. But Grayson, someday I’ll break a huge story, and then I’ll be back here and it’ll be beers for everyone on me—full pints!”

  “That’ll be the day.” Grayson walked away, grumbling under his breath.

  Tristan turned back to me.

  “So now you know,” he sighed.

  “What?”

  “That I may be handsome, but wealthy . . . not so much.”

  “That’s fine.” I laughed. “You are exceptionally handsome, so it compensates quite well.”

  I almost bit my own tongue. Was I . . . flirting with him? I’d never tried to flirt with anyone before. Yet here I was, sitting next to a gorgeous boy from the city, saying things I should not be saying when I had other things to focus on. I hadn’t even mentioned my plan. In fact, I was surprised he hadn’t asked yet why I’d come.

  “Why thank you, Emmy Watkins. You’re quite lovely yourself.”

  “Do you say that to all the girls?” I couldn’t help myself. I would ask that one question and then redirect everything to my plan. But he was so handsome, and the most charming things flowed right out of him.

  “Only you, of course.” He grinned and winked. “Well, maybe not. But I have to say . . .”

  “What?” I pressed.

  “Nothing. I’ve just never met a Fashion House contestant brave enough to come to the Republic District on her own.” He spoke frankly, all signs of joking gone.

  “They don’t for good reason,” I said, motioning to my shoulder. “Remember, I was clawed by an inebriated man who smelled like a week’s worth of sweat.”

  Grayson came up, holding a tray with two white handled cups and a small pot of tea. He placed the entire tray down on the table with a loud thud.

  “Cream and sugar, Grayson?” Tristan asked. “You may think I’m a barbarian, but I’m with a lady, and she might desire some for her tea.”

  “It’s all right,” I interjected before Grayson could complain. “I actually take my tea black.”

  “Isn’t that sweet. Just like you, Tristan.” He scowled at me, but there wasn’t any real malice in his expression. “I’ll let you two lovebirds alone, but remember—a cup of tea buys you two hours in here, no more.”

  At the word lovebirds, my face flushed, and I almost protested. Grayson, though, had already turned away.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have any news for you.” Tristan didn’t seem to notice my embarrassment. He was busily distributing the cups and pouring tea into them, as adept as any maid. “I’ve been checking the employee records at the textile mills but haven’t found your mother yet. I’ll still need some more time.”

  “Oh, I’m not here for that. Though I do appreciate you checking.”

  “Really?” He cocked his head to the side. “Then what brings you here?”

  I tried to take a steadying breath. Everything had made much more sense in the safety of my chamber at the Fashion House. “I—well, ever since coming here, I’ve been used for press events. I want to succeed at the Fashion House Interview, but I’m not sure that’s a real possibility. I . . .” I didn’t know if I could actually say it. I hadn’t told my idea to a single soul. Saying it made it too real, too risky.

  “What are you thinking?”

  Instead of speaking, I picked up my teacup and took a small sip. When I returned the cup to the saucer, my hand trembled a little. If my plan didn’t work—if it somehow got back to Madame Jolène—my dreams would be over. I wouldn’t even have enough money to get home to Shy, and a disgraced Fashion House Interview reject couldn’t find another job in the city, that much was for sure. If I did manage to get home, who knew what my mother would say or do. I still hadn’t heard a word from her.

  “Are you all right?” Tristan asked quietly.

  “Yes.” I took up the teacup again, despite the fact that I’d just set it down. This time I forced my hand to stay steady. I took another drink, slower this time. As I did, I thought about my gown—not the brocade one, but the one I’d drawn for my mother to wear when she came to the city. It had poured out of me like my pencil was enchanted. The story that inspired the dress would never happen, but when I’d sketched it, I’d felt powerful, as though I could somehow will it into reality. “I’m going to make a gown.”

  “What?”

  “I’m going to make a gown,” I repeated.

  “Isn’t that what you do all the time?”

  “Not for the Fashion House. For someone else. And I need your help.”

  “My help? With making a gown?” Tristan stared at me in shock. Who could blame him? I could still hardly believe the plan myself.

  “You’re still interviewing Duchess Sandringham, aren’t you?”

  “Well, yes . . . tomorrow.”

  “Could you give her a message for me? Could you tell her there is a new fashion label starting, and they want her to wear their first gown? Tell her it will be a special gown, one that will change everything. She can wear it to the Parliament Exhibition, and then, after the opening speeches, she can come to a debut, where a whole new collection will be presented. Everyone will be there, including the Fashion House critics and reporters from the newspapers.”

  “They” was a bit of an exaggeration since, at the moment, I was a one-woman operation. Still, I needed to appear convincing and official. It worked. For a passing second, I felt like something bigger and stronger than what I was.

  “A fashion label?” Tristan sputtered a little. “What label?”

  “Um . . . the Emmy Watkins label.” His reaction made me falter. I tried not to let it show, clinging to the idea that I could do this and do it well. Even so, my heart pounded in my ears.

  “All right. All right.” He raised his hands just above the tabletop and took a breath. “Let’s start at the beginning. You want to create a dress for Duchess Cynthia Sandringham and, at the same time, start a new fashion line?”

  “Yes.” Somehow, I mustered enough strength to make my voice as firm as my face.

  “To start a fashion label, you need a place to work, material, and access to the press.” Tristan ticked the items off his fingers. “And you’d somehow have to get it off the ground without Madame Jolène hearing about it. She’s an expert at squashing new fashion start-ups. And, even if you do get it running, there’s no doubt she’ll come after you. She has the favor of the Crown.”

  “I’m going to work at the Fashion House, after hours, and I do have access to the press.” I skipped the issues of materials and Madame Jolène. “You.”

  “Well.” Tristan tilted his cup toward me in a miniature toast before rubbing his hand over his face. “You want to make an entire collection and a custom gown in time for the Parliament Exhibition?”

  “It’s the only event that the aristocrats, press, Crown, and Parliament attend together. For it to work, everyone has to see her. Since she’s a duchess, she’ll be formally announced. And then we’ll debut our line
on the same night.”

  “That’s next month. You can’t do it on your own. There’s no way. You’ll need to find help.” He formed a steeple with his fingers, a line of concentration appearing between his eyebrows. He puzzled in silence for a few minutes, and then a strange, elusive expression crossed his face. “Have you thought about asking someone to join you?”

  “I’m not sure who I could ask . . .” Even as I spoke, a face flashed in my mind, the image rising faster than my words. Sophie. She was strong in so many ways—a quick sewer with a fierce imagination. As focused as she was on the competition, there was an independent streak in her, something that wasn’t quite satisfied with the way things were at the Fashion House.

  But . . . could I trust her?

  “There is one girl.”

  “Who?”

  “Sophie.”

  I watched him closely. He fiddled with the handle of his teacup, and when he spoke, his voice was tempered, cautious.

  “She is a good choice. I thought she would be happy at the Fashion House, but that doesn’t seem to be the case. I think she’d jump at the chance to do something like this.”

  “Do you think so?” I asked. “You would know better than I, given your”—I almost couldn’t bring myself to say it—“past.”

  “You’d think so, but when I was with her, I didn’t know what was up or down or left or right. It was like falling in love with a figment—she was never graspable. We’ve been apart for a year, and half that time I’ve wondered if she only saw me because she likes doing things her own way . . . especially if it causes a stir.” He leaned forward, toward me. “Are you all right hearing this? I want to be open with you.”

  “Of course,” I said quickly. But I couldn’t deny it—though I was strangely riveted, I hated it. Even if they weren’t still together, they had a history all their own, something I had no part in. Sophie and her past were like shadows creeping across the floor: terrifying and inevitable.

  “She’s a strange soul,” Tristan continued. “I don’t think I ever truly knew her, but I do know that she’d be perfect for the task. Aside from her skills, she has resources, which you’ll need, and a lot of savvy.”

  “I have savvy,” I found myself blurting out. I didn’t want to be compared to the beautiful, mysterious, talented Sophie, even if he didn’t love her.

  “That’s obvious,” he said. “You came all the way down here, got attacked by a drunk, and are still on your feet. You’ve got gumption, as we say in the journalism world, and you have it by the boatload.”

  I picked up my teacup, glad it could hide my face so he wouldn’t see how pleased and grateful I was.

  “If I give this message to Cynthia, how will you meet her to discuss it?”

  “At the gala next week. She said she was attending, correct? Maybe you can tell her to meet me somewhere. Have you been to the Charwell Palace?”

  “I have, for last year’s gala.”

  “Is there some discreet spot?”

  “Well, there’s a gazebo out back in the gardens. Would that work?”

  “Perfect. Tell her to meet me there thirty minutes after the gala begins.”

  “Slow down now. This is a lot to ask of a poor journalist such as myself with no name or family to speak of.” He sounded like his typical self—his voice brimming with humor. But then I saw it—a hesitancy that passed through his eyes. “I want to write for the Avon-upon-Kynt Times someday. That means staying on the good side of the Fashion House. If I break this story, I won’t ever be able to do interviews at the Fashion House again.”

  “I know. It’s a lot to ask. But if you break this, it’ll be huge. And times are changing. I’ve heard people say that soon the Times won’t answer to the queen.” I spoke more confidently than I had the right to. “Besides, aren’t there some editors at the Times who want to curry favor with the Reformists?”

  “Yes . . .” He picked at some dried skin around his fingernail. For a moment, this uncharacteristic pensiveness made me question myself. What right did I have to ask him to do this? To endanger his career? And for what? A slim hope of something that might not even happen. He had a job and a place in this city—and I was asking him to risk both.

  “How about this?” When I met his gaze, his eyes were bright again, and that bewitchingly sly smile was back, pulling at the left side of his mouth. “I’ll tell Cynthia about the plan. And if you are successful and pull off an actual fashion show, I’ll write the story.”

  “Really?” I smiled back at him, unable to hide my relief. “Thank you.”

  “Yes. Just promise me one thing.”

  “What?”

  “That you’ll be really careful and you won’t get caught.”

  “Promise.”

  There was a sudden flash of lightning, and it made us both jump. Tristan glanced across the pub to one of the grimy windows. Dark clouds gathered in the gloomy sky, and thunder rumbled, low and growly.

  “It’s going to rain. You need to get back. Also, Grayson might have us wash dishes in the back if we stay.”

  He was right. I needed to go home.

  Correction. I needed to get back to the Fashion House.

  Chapter Thirteen

  THAT NIGHT, SOPHIE WAS GONE as usual, so I had our chamber to myself. I was glad. I could think in the empty silence of our room. Think, and plan.

  I got out my sketchbook and sat down at my vanity. To make a full collection, I would need at least eight pieces. Ten, if I wanted to appear like a real designer. Madame Jolène’s collections always had at least twelve, but that was impossible. Eight would have to do, and I’d be lucky if I managed that.

  The easiest part was deciding on a theme. My collection would tell the story of a girl who came to the city for a better life. The first dresses would be clean, asymmetrical factory shifts that would slowly transition into fantastical gowns, fit for the noblest woman in the city.

  I closed my eyes, letting a fog of watercolors wash over me, holding my pencil over my sketchbook. Slowly, the fog turned into wispy forms, purply shadows of shadows. I pressed the pencil to the paper, and the shadows turned to shapes and the shapes to styles, streaming out of me. A hooded tunic over a long shift. A two-piece dress cut from plain cotton. A structured nude overcoat with a sheer slip underneath.

  I stopped with the three, staring down at them. I loved them. But from a practical standpoint, they were difficult. It would take lots of time and effort to make even one. And I wasn’t about to simplify them, not when I needed them to prove my skills and vision. There was no way I could do everything I needed on my own in the three weeks before the exhibition. And if this collection didn’t astound the press, I wouldn’t stand a chance at starting a new fashion house.

  The unexpected desire to ask Kitty for her help came over me. I quickly banished it. There was no way I could trust her, even if I wanted to. We’d seen each other frequently these past two days, but we hadn’t spoken since I’d discovered her letter.

  Sophie, though, might just have everything I needed, including quickness. In addition to her skills and creativity, she never ran up against the clock with the challenges. With her at my side, I’d be unstoppable. I looked over to her always-changing side of the room. Her wardrobe door sat open, her black dresses hanging partway out of it. The burgundy dresses Madame Jolène wanted her to wear were pushed to the back, as though Sophie couldn’t stand the sight of them.

  When my mother was considering hiring a new vendor, she’d make them a pie and have them over so she could “look them in the eye and get a real feel for them.”

  I pushed my stool back from the vanity. Before our falling-out, Kitty had given me a velvet box of white chocolates and a small bottle of wine from the hamper her parents sent. I grabbed them. Now I just had to find Sophie.

  She probably wasn’t in the dining room. Maybe the sewing room or her fitting room. I was in my nightgown, and I put on the filmy blush retiring robe that hung on a hook by my bed each night. I would
start with the fitting rooms.

  Throughout the day, the stairway down to the fitting rooms was constantly filled with the contestants, the design board, Francesco, and Madame Jolène’s servants, tramping up and down in a ceaseless march. But at night, it was completely empty and unlit. White moonlight filtered in through the windows high above my head, but the slender shafts didn’t quite penetrate the murky darkness. The only sounds were the soft padding of my feet, muffled by the long Turkish runners covering the stairs and the low swish of my nightgown.

  The doors to the hallway swung open on their well-oiled hinges. Peering down the hall, I glimpsed a sliver of light shining beneath the curtain to Sophie’s room and heard the familiar whir of a sewing machine. No one else had a sewing machine in their room. She must have specially requested it.

  I walked over to it and knocked on the doorframe before slipping inside. I had never been in her fitting room before.

  Sophie sat on an upholstered bench running along the far wall. She was wearing a thin black satin romper with a sheer champagne robe tied over it. Half her hair was wrapped up into a knot on the very top of her head while the rest lay over her shoulders. White silk spilled across her lap. She was working on her wedding gown.

  “Emmaline?”

  “I . . .” I moved to stand in the center of the fitting room so we weren’t so far apart. This room was clearly her domain, and I was an intruder. “Hello.”

  I tried to focus on her, but the surrounding details drew me in. Surreptitiously, I glanced around at the designer’s dreamworld that Sophie had created. Swatches of cloth arranged by color created a perfect rainbow better than anything seen in nature. It was hard to tell in the dim light, but it seemed that the swatches were also arranged by texture: thicker matte fabrics to the right, thinner ones on the left. I had never even considered such an arrangement.

  Sketches covered the wall behind Sophie. Not just of gowns, but of the female form, with notes down the sides. One had a provocatively tight dress with a gigantic, sheer ball-gown skirt layered on top. On another: a high neck and long sleeves with an open back. The fabric was completely sheer, revealing the body beneath.