A Dress for the Wicked

by Autumn Krause

  “It seems like your wedding gown is coming along,” Kitty said as I bit off some thread. I lowered the floss. Kitty’s sewing table was next to mine, but ever since I’d discovered her letter, we hadn’t said much more than good morning to each other. I assumed she didn’t mind. She fit in well enough with the other girls, and they never questioned the sweetness that I now knew was fake. But her hesitant tone made me wonder if maybe, just maybe, she missed our friendship.

  “I suppose so.” As usual, I was far behind the other girls. Everyone else already had their gowns on mannequins. “It is what it is.”

  I sounded stiff, but I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t let her in, not like before. Her face fell, and she turned back to her sewing table. I thought she’d get right back to work, but she stared at her mannequin without seeming to see it.

  Her gown, as always, was well constructed but too traditional. Now, though, I knew she was intentionally making it classic. Elegant ruffles ran up a fitted bodice on an A-line skirt. It wouldn’t win her the challenge, that was for sure. Of course, she didn’t want it to. Currently, Sophie was at the top of the rankings, followed by Ky and Cordelia. Alice was always solidly in the middle. I, of course, wasn’t even considered a real competitor, but according to my scores, I was just behind Ky. If I hadn’t scored so low in the first challenge, I’d be somewhere equal to or higher than her.

  “Your seaming is impressive,” I said. If she’d told me the truth, the compliment would be reassuring. “It shows masterful technique.”

  Kitty’s face instantly brightened, and she smiled at me. It wasn’t the too-sweet smile that she dispensed to everyone else. It was grateful. Real. I quickly looked away. We couldn’t be friends—not with that letter tucked away in my vanity upstairs—and I needed to remember that.

  At my words, Ky looked up from her mannequin. She’d reined in her usual style for this challenge, but I could still see it just behind the clean lines of her gown.

  “What do you think about Kitty’s gown, Ky?”

  I addressed her without thinking. All I wanted to do was push away the guilt from ignoring Kitty’s smile.

  Ky didn’t reply to me, but she said loudly, “Cordelia, I just don’t understand. This is a challenge, but some people think they should be helping each other.”

  Cordelia nodded, holding some lace trim in her hands. Her wedding gown had the look of a men’s suit on top but with a soft tulle skirt on the bottom.

  “If you are both so confident in your work, why does it matter if we help each other a little?” I asked, grateful I could redirect my attention from Kitty to Ky.

  “I’ve been told to be one way and look one way my whole life,” Ky countered. “My father wants my style to fit in with Britannia Secunda. But it doesn’t. Because I’m half Britannia Secundan and half Japanese, and I wouldn’t change that ever. I’ve had to fight for every bit of my style—for who I am—and I’m not going to risk losing the competition because you think I should be nice.”

  Her tone was sharp, defensive. I fiddled with my thread. It was easy to think of Ky as petty and cutthroat, but perhaps she was that way because she needed to be. The longer I was in the competition, the more I realized that the other girls had carried as many struggles here as I had.

  “I—” I cut myself off because a flash of black skirt in the doorway caught my eye. It was Sophie, passing by. She still hadn’t given me an answer and, these past few days, she’d seemed more elusive than ever. I only caught glimpses of her as she disappeared around corners or into different rooms. The few times I caught her alone in our chamber, she said she needed more time. If she didn’t want to help me, I would have to find someone else or simplify my collection.

  And, since this collection would introduce me to the fashion world, there was no way I could do that.

  The night of the gala arrived with a sky full of dark clouds. Its ominous nature was fitting, I mused, as I walked down the stairs to the lobby. The staircase stretched on, making me feel like I was moving in place instead of forward and down. My breath came in short bursts, despite the fact that I traversed those stairs several times a day at a brisk pace, heels and all.

  I gripped my clutch. There were sketches inside: two from my collection and another two of gowns I’d drawn specifically for Cynthia. Since she hadn’t been in the society pages for a long while, it was impossible to gauge her style. Hopefully, the four sketches would capture her imagination—and her confidence in me.

  Sophie needed to give me an answer tonight, and I needed it to be a yes. Her skills, her connections, and her understanding of the city were essential parts of my plan.

  When we reached the lobby, I searched up and down the clusters of girls. Sophie was at the opposite end of the room, talking to Ky. It was easy to spot her. Even though the contestants wouldn’t be formally introduced at the gala, Madame Jolène had assigned us our wardrobe, and Sophie’s wine-colored mermaid gown contrasted sharply with the white marble floors. Black tulle spilled out from under the hem and coordinated with the black tulle wrapped over her neckline and around her shoulders.

  We made eye contact, and I started to make my way over to her. This wasn’t the most discreet place to ask if she was willing to join me in Fashion House blasphemy, but I wouldn’t have any other opportunities.

  “Ladies!”

  I jerked to a stop as Francesco entered the lobby. He was dressed in a gold evening jacket with tails that dragged on the ground behind him. A glossy black headband sprouting long deer antlers rose through his coiffed hair, and his heeled shoes had cloven hooves attached to the fronts. With a wave of his hand, he got our attention.

  “All of you shall be transported to the Charwell Palace, where you will mingle with guests until Madame Jolène’s presentation.” He walked forward, his gold tails gliding after him. “Now, where is Emmaline?”

  The sound of my name made my heart spring up in my chest like a cornered jackrabbit. I stopped midstep, certain he’d uncovered my plan.

  “There you are.” Francesco smiled at me. “As Madame Jolène’s country contestant, you will be introduced formally to the press right before her presentation. You won’t have to say anything, but do make sure I can find you once we arrive.”

  Weakly, I nodded. A murmur wound its way around the lobby. The other girls, except for Sophie, stared at me, their faces darkening.

  “She hardly even competes, but she gets all the press attention,” Cordelia said to Ky. “For the next Fashion House Interview, remind me to come back as a country simpleton.”

  Ky gave a snort of laughter.

  Oblivious to the reactions of the girls, Francesco opened the double doors leading to Madame Jolène’s private staircase. And there she was, an entourage of attendants surrounding her and all five dogs prancing at her feet.

  I gasped as she stepped into the foyer’s light. She was like a figure from an Italian Renaissance painting. Hand-painted red, orange, and navy roses delicately outlined with an ivory thread spread out over her entire dress. A huge train spilled out from an intricate French bustle wrapped around the back of the skirt, and a giant black hair comb was attached around the side of her face and up into the air above her head.

  The press wouldn’t care about me at all. Not when she looked like that.

  Irrationally, I wanted to applaud. Yes, she treated me unfairly, but she was so . . . so . . . talented. She was living art—fashion personified—and that’s what I wanted to be someday.

  Madame Jolène walked over to us, the elaborate layers of her gown swishing on the marble. I held my breath as she passed by me, somehow convinced she could sense my plans just from my face or the way I held my clutch. Her disinterested expression gave me a rush of relief. She had no clue. I was being paranoid, overreacting.

  “You ladies look very nice,” Madame Jolène abruptly announced. “You do justice to my gowns.”

  I took an unsteady breath and switched my incriminating clutch to my other hand. Easing my aching finger
s, I ran them over the skirt of my dress to hide their shaking.

  My gown had a rose-colored bodice that was fitted through the torso, hugging my hips. The bottom transitioned into tufted pieces of raw silk and flowers made from peau de soie and point d’esprit tulle. The effect was of a girl walking through a field of flowers. At the Fashion House, everyone saw me in terms of Shy’s sprawling fields and untamed meadows, Madame Jolène most of all. She was spinning a story in her head about each of us, and I was cast as the farm girl. Madame Jolène didn’t bother to acknowledge the truth: that I had grown up in a pub, not on a farm.

  So the gown was beautiful. Of course, everything Madame Jolène made was beautiful. But I’d slowly come to realize that the things she made were stunning illusions. There was no truth behind them.

  “I will give individual notes at the door. Each of you must embody a distinct look,” Madame Jolène said.

  We filed out one by one, pausing only for her final inspection. Sophie moved easily across the floor, unconcerned. For a second, I stared at her, bewildered. Did she even remember our conversation in her fitting room? My gown and clutch suddenly felt too heavy, as though they would pull me right through the floor to some terrible place beneath it.

  “Try, Sophie,” Madame Jolène said as Sophie stood in front of her, “to be less severe. You are always on the borderline of bitterness, and it’s terribly unattractive. Mystery is your angle. Mystery.”

  Alice stepped up next, her blond hair shining against her lavender gown. Baby-blue crocheted lace covered the skirt in a delicate spiderweb pattern. Madame Jolène instructed her to be birdlike, wideeyed, and girlish. She told Ky, whose white gown was like folded origami, to be quirky and exotic. I listened, realizing I wasn’t the only one Madame Jolène stereotyped. Cordelia, of course, was told to be strong and stern.

  Kitty was next, and Madame Jolène ordered her to be friendly and sophisticated. That, at least, fit the image she’d cultivated. She was demure but elegant in a classic navy-blue dress with a long train and an ivory sash.

  I tried to keep myself from cringing as Madame Jolène’s eyes fastened onto mine. I could feel my cheeks turning hot and red, my guilt a second rouge.

  “Emmaline,” she said, “remember your posture.”

  Then she waved me on. Normally, I would’ve been stung by her dismissal. But now I hurried out into the courtyard, grateful to get away from her watchful eyes. I was safe. No one knew anything, at least for now.

  Fat raindrops started to fall just as we arrived at Charwell Palace. The hacks unloaded their passengers beneath an awning that dipped from the weight of the rain. As I stepped onto the cobblestoned entryway, I wanted to reach out my hand and collect the drops. I hadn’t felt rain since arriving at the Fashion House. Or wind. Or the warmth of the dwindling fall sunlight.

  Every Sunday evening in Shy, I would walk to the bluffs overlooking the pond behind our pub. Rolling fields dotted with cottages would stretch out in front of me and, as the sun slipped down into the hills, it would suffuse everything in orangey-red light. No matter how many times I saw it, I was compelled to worshipfully raise my face to the last hot rays.

  I let the cold wash over me. I couldn’t be homesick. Not now, when I needed my wits about me.

  “What on earth?” I heard Alice ask. She faced outward from the palace, squinting into the night. Then I heard it. Shouts and running footsteps. Pinpoints of light in the night emerged from the opposite end of the courtyard. Figures appeared out of the dark, carrying signs and lanterns. They formed a line just outside the awning.

  “Come in, ladies!” a servant called to us, eyeing the protestors. The other girls ran inside, but I edged closer to see the gatherers. They wore old, torn clothes, and their hair hung in strings around their faces. Many of them held signs. It was hard to read them in the dark, but an occasional lantern splashed light over them, illuminating phrases written in harsh scrawl: FASHION FOR EVERYONE, NO MORE FUNDING FOR THE FASHION HOUSE, END THE CROWN’S RELATIONSHIP WITH JOLÈNE.

  The coolness of the night vanished as my body broke out in a sweat. This was the protest Mr. Taylor had mentioned. Only there was nothing small about it.

  “Emmaline!” Through the noise, I heard my name as a figure detached from the group of protestors.

  “Tristan?” He was holding a small pad of paper, but as I watched, it was knocked from his grasp.

  “Lovely evening!” he shouted at me over the din. He didn’t seem frightened, but his body was tense as he was jostled about. “You should probably get inside, Emmy.”

  “What about you?”

  “Don’t worry about me.” He gave me a quick smile and then pointed to Charwell Palace. “Good luck tonight.”

  I nodded and bent down to pick up my skirts. I headed into the palace, hoping Tristan’s luck would get me through the night. When I stepped into the Charwell Palace’s foyer, I couldn’t see any of the other girls. Only a few servants milled about, and one of them, seeing my uncertainty, gestured at two double doors.

  “The party is through there, miss.”

  I stepped through the doors, and immediately all thoughts of the protestors and my plan evaporated. I was in an entirely different world. A huge glass dome designed as a peacock’s tail arched over our heads. Stained glass in jewel tones of green, purple, blue, and gold made up the intricate tailpieces. Candles hung on wires from the dome’s underside, small pricks of light against the glass. Panels of mirrored mercury glass lined every single wall. On the far side of the ballroom, there was a stage framed in blush velvet curtains. Its painted backdrop featured the distinctive FH insignia encircled by roses, fluffy white sheep in lace dresses, and white cuttleworms in tiny hats.

  Couples danced in the center of the room while others chatted along the walls. Musicians played stringed instruments, and servants circulated with trays of champagne flutes. Slowly, sounds of lively conversation started to build.

  I made my way to the edge of the room, grasping my clutch. A maid offered me a glass of champagne, and I took it. I leaned against one of the mercury-glass panels. The bubbles stung my throat as I drank it down, grateful for its coolness.

  Even though I wasn’t moving, the ballroom seemed to spin around me. Maybe it was the dancing partygoers. The women’s skirts blended with the men’s tails until they were nothing but a colorful blur. Hints of early fall had crept into the latest styles: warmer colors, thicker fabrics, and fuller skirts, even though it was clear that none of these people went outside. Their skin was as white and thin as pages from a Bible.

  I drained my glass, the last few drops rolling over my tongue. My head was hot and pulsing, and I raised the chilled champagne flute and pressed it to my forehead. Would Cynthia even come? Across the ballroom, I saw the gazebo just outside a window that overlooked the gardens. It was empty, and the sight left me more panicky than the protestors had. Cynthia was the linchpin to my plan. Without a person of interest to wear one of my gowns, I’d have no way to garner any attention for my line. My line. I nearly laughed aloud.

  That was a joke. I was a joke.

  Sophie still hadn’t given me an answer, and it seemed doubtful Cynthia would attend tonight. The throbbing in my head grew. I pushed myself away from the wall. The air was hot and stuffy, and light seemed to flash off every silver tray, mirror, and piece of crystal. I walked along the edge of the room until I reached a door. I didn’t know where it led, but I stepped through it, needing to get away for a few moments.

  I found myself in a long corridor and paused to let my eyes adjust. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined the hallway’s right side while more mercury-glass mirrors lined the other. Rain pelted the glass, running down the panes in wavy lines. The sounds of the gala were muted, and drafty air cooled my skin. I breathed in and out, trying to gather my thoughts, trying to gather myself.

  A door on the hall’s far side was open, and long shadows—silhouettes—stained the walls. I heard someone speak and knew immediately who it was. The voice was as d
istinct as its owner. Walking over to the door, I peered inside to see Sophie and a dark-haired man standing in the center of the room. Neither of them seemed to notice me.

  “It pains you, doesn’t it?” the man asked. I could hear him clearly—Mr. Taylor. His shadow stretched up the wall and onto the ceiling. Sophie’s shadow was much smaller, hovering close to her body, diminutive beside his.

  “Doesn’t it?” His voice dropped an octave, and he leaned forward, his shadow merging with hers. He was tall, much taller than Sophie. My skin was suddenly crawling, something stirring deep down, far under the surface.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sophie said.

  “You need me. No need to be coy about it.” He brushed her cheek with his finger while his other hand grasped her arm, his fingers wrapping around her sleeve. “You’re cursed, Sophie, just like your mother was. And I am, too, because I love you.”

  Mr. Taylor’s hand constricted on her arm, tighter and tighter. Then, with a frustrated murmur, he released her with a shove. Despite her high heels, Sophie kept her balance.

  “Everything I do, Sophie, I do for you. Those protestors out there—I orchestrated them. They are just the beginning. Someday, you can have a fashion house of your own with the power of Parliament and the Crown behind you. After the elections, the Reformists Party will have the majority vote in parliament. Together, we will rule Avon-upon-Kynt as leaders—in fashion and politics.”

  My knees went weak, their strength obliterated. Sophie was in league with Mr. Taylor. She wasn’t going to help me. In fact, she’d probably thought it ridiculous that I’d come to her. And now she knew about my plan. Feebly, I grabbed the doorjamb.

  Sophie shut her eyes for a brief second, as though willing him to disappear, then reopened them. When she spoke, her voice wavered, but her eyes burned in the darkness.

  “I am not yours to will.” She lifted her chin, raising her face to his, her lips nearly brushing his chin. Mr. Taylor stared down at her, fixated by her sudden strength. He placed a hand on the skin of her chest, just above her bodice. His fingers extended upward until they closed around her neck. They didn’t tighten, but they remained there.