A Dress for the Wicked

by Autumn Krause

  “My love, you misunderstand. I do not ‘will’ you. You will me.”

  Juxtaposed with the scene—with the way that he loomed over her, the way his hand rested on her chest, the way he stared down at her—his words rang empty.

  “You don’t understand.” She placed her hand on top of his. Her hand spread out over his, her fingers lining up with his. “I don’t need you.”

  “Why? Because you’ve had success at the Fashion House Interview? You know as well as I do that you don’t belong there. You were made to be envied, to be followed—not to be one of Madame Jolène’s mindless designers.”

  “I know. I know that.”

  “Then come home with me. We can leave right now, together.”

  “No.”

  No?

  “No?” Mr. Taylor echoed my question. “You can’t be happy there.”

  Sophie lifted her fingers from his and circled both hands around his wrist. She didn’t try to pull his hand away, but she held it, as though she might at any moment.

  “I’m not going to stay at the Fashion House.”

  “Then where will you go? What will you do?”

  “I have a plan.”

  A plan. Did she mean with me? I listened, torn between wanting to hear her say that her plan was my plan and wanting to pull her away from Mr. Taylor.

  “And what would that be?”

  “The girl from the country. We are doing something that will change everything.”

  Surprised relief overcame me, restoring strength to my knees.

  “The girl from the . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence. His fingers started constricting around her long, thin neck. She tried to pull him off, but he was strong, much stronger than she. Sophie didn’t make a sound as his grip became tighter and tighter.

  “Stop!” I ran into the room. He wheeled around in surprise. Jigsaw shadows hollowed out his eyes and the sides of his nose. I threw my whole body against his, dropping my clutch in the process. Caught off guard, he took a few steps, but he didn’t let go, dragging Sophie along. Her eyes started to flutter shut.

  “Let go!” I grabbed onto his arm.

  An inarticulate sound rose from his throat—something between a growl and laugh—and he released Sophie to face me. I tried to turn away, but a crawling fear immobilized me. It spread through my limbs like dye through muslin. But when he looked at me, he only made the same half-laughing sound.

  “Little country girl,” he said. “I should’ve known from the beginning you’d try to use Sophie to your advantage.”

  I couldn’t speak. I stood between him and Sophie, desperately looking around for a fireplace poker or vase—anything that could serve as a weapon. But he didn’t seem interested in attacking me.

  “You aspire to too much, girl,” he said. He almost sounded calm, conversational. “There are consequences for those who cross me.”

  With that, he turned, heading for the door.

  Sophie folded to her knees, her crimson gown spreading out around her. Her hair had been shaken loose, and it fell around her shoulders, tumbling down her back.

  “Are you all right? Should we get help?”

  Without speaking, she shook her head.

  “Are you sure?”

  “He’s gone.” She choked and started coughing. She pulled away from me as the hacking sounds racked her body. Impulsively, I took her hand and then released it, startled. It was freezing cold, as chilled as the body of a corpse.

  When her coughs slowed and became smaller hiccups, I asked, “What was that, Sophie? Who is he to you?”

  “He’s my benefactor.” She straightened up and wiped her eyes. Even though her shoulders shook a little, she started adjusting her dress and hair. Bit by bit, she put herself back together.

  “Your benefactor?”

  “When my parents died, their will appointed him as my guardian until I come of age. I lived with him until I got into the Fashion House.”

  “He seems . . . volatile.” To put it lightly.

  “Yes.” She rose gracefully to her feet, brushing off her skirts. “Now, don’t we need to meet Cynthia in the gazebo?”

  I didn’t know what to say. Moments ago she’d been choked by a man three times her size. Now she was talking as though nothing had happened.

  “Do calm down, Emmaline.” She let out a small laugh, even though coughs still shook her frame and her hands trembled. She must have read the uncertainty in my face. “Don’t worry about Alexander. I know my way around him.”

  This sounded preposterous when I looked at the five finger marks on her white neck. In the dark light of the room, they loomed shadowy on her skin.

  “You’re certain you don’t need more time to rest?” I wavered, and then asked, “You’re certain Mr. Taylor won’t complicate things? He’s a member of Parliament!”

  “As I said, I know my way around him.” She pulled a small bottle of perfume out of her pocket and sprayed it onto herself. It sparkled on her chest, beading like dew or raindrops. Reaching down to her hem, she tore a narrow, long piece of tulle from its bottom. She wrapped it around her neck, tying it off in a dramatic bow that covered Mr. Taylor’s marks and lay across the thin bones of her chest.

  “Very well,” I said, reaching for my clutch. It seemed like we were preparing for a leisurely stroll, as though the terrifying events from just moments before hadn’t happened.

  But even as we walked back to the hallway, the terror from earlier came with me, wove through me like thread being pulled through satin. No matter what I did, I couldn’t get free of it.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I WAS GRATEFUL WHEN WE stepped back into the ballroom. The jarring sounds and bright lights of the gala filled my senses, overcoming my ability to think.

  When I’d moved around the ballroom earlier, I’d stayed to its sides, but Sophie crossed right through its center, stepping around the couples dancing and the people gathered in conversation. I followed in her wake. Eyes trailed her as she moved. Her gait fell into a saunter, as though she knew she commanded the room, even though she kept her head erect and her gaze fixed straight ahead.

  When we reached the two French doors that led out to the patio, I rubbed the foggy glass, clearing a patch to see out. I assumed the gazebo would be empty. Even without the protestors, it was doubtful that Cynthia would come. But as I squinted at the outline of the gazebo, I saw something move. Someone was there. My heart jumped excitedly at the sight and I smiled. It was nice to finally feel something other than stress or fear or guilt.

  I stepped outside, Sophie close behind me. The atrium’s beautiful, controlled environment vanished as cold air and wind pulled at my hair and skirts, tugging them into disarray. Raindrops stung my cheeks, and goose bumps raced up and down my arms and legs.

  Bending down, I gathered my skirts high above my ankles with one hand. There were so many layers to my gown that it took me a few tries to grab all of it. With the other hand, I shielded my hair with my clutch. Mud sucked away at my heels, pulling me down.

  Glancing back over my shoulder, I saw the windows of Charwell Palace lit with warm light, silhouetting the people dancing inside. That was where I should be. Not out in the rain, trying to find a client I didn’t know and wasn’t supposed to be meeting in the first place.

  That was the problem with my scheme. I couldn’t tell if I was getting closer to or farther from my dreams.

  “Hurry up,” Sophie called into my ear, urging me on to the gazebo. We stepped inside and a sharp odor assaulted my nose. Alcohol. The scent mixed with sweetness, as though someone had tried to cover the smell by dousing themselves in jasmine perfume. My eyes watered.

  “Who’s there?” Swinging around, a woman listed toward me. She was done up in a hunter-green party dress with a luxurious fur-trimmed stole. Shades of green shimmered in the cloth, caught by the moonlight slipping through the rain clouds. Though the design was basic, the fabric and fur must have been exorbitantly expensive.

  “Hello,�
� she said in a childlike tone. “Are you the new designer?” She took a tottering step forward and blinked at me with bright, round eyes. I’d never thought she would look so young.

  “I am.” I stepped aside so I was standing next to Sophie. “I mean, we both are designers for the new line.”

  “She’s drunk.” Sophie muttered under her breath. Cynthia was a duchess, but Sophie stared at her with annoyance. I understood the feeling. This woman was unstable, and we were about to trust her with our idea.

  “You two? Designers? You’re both babies.” Her tone changed from giggly to suddenly sharp and aware. Perhaps she wasn’t as drunk as I’d first thought. “The reporter told me this was an official line!”

  “I appreciate you coming to meet with us tonight,” I said, ignoring her protests. Light-headedness descended on me, and the gazebo started to swim, making me feel like I’d been the one nipping at whiskey, not Cynthia. Everything seemed like too much. Sophie and Mr. Taylor. Betraying Madame Jolène. I wasn’t quite sure when or where it had happened, but my life was all undone ends, an unraveled mess.

  “This is ridiculous,” Cynthia said. “But then, I knew it would be. Why on earth would designers ask to meet me at a gala that I wasn’t even invited to?”

  She pressed two fingers against her forehead. Her hand was trembling, like Sophie’s had been just a little while earlier. She fumbled her other hand within her brassiere, removing a small silver object. Unscrewing the top, she took a long drink from the flask, never once shuddering against its bite.

  “Everyone thinks I’m a fool,” she murmured, more to herself than to us. I glanced at Sophie. Her arms were crossed tightly across her chest, and her foot tapped impatiently against the ground.

  “We aren’t established yet, but we will be,” I said. Treating her like a respected client was our best option. My mother always knew how to handle our difficult customers, and I had spent my whole life watching her. Hopefully, I could cut through Cynthia’s drunkenness and help her focus. “The dress we make you will shape fashion in Avon-upon-Kynt.”

  “You’re going to make me a dress?” Cynthia demanded. “How can you make any gown that could compare to Madame Jolène’s gowns?”

  I unsnapped my clutch, pulled out the sketches, and carefully unfolded them. Intentionally, I’d placed the sketches for her possible gowns on top. They weren’t as couture or avant-garde as the designs for the collection. I’d put the more extravagant gowns last, so she’d see them after the more traditional pieces.

  “Look at these. Keep in mind, they are only ideas. We can easily redo them with your preferences.” I handed them to her, and she struggled to look at them in the darkness. I kept talking as she studied them. Some women couldn’t envision a sketch as an actual gown—I wouldn’t let that be the case with Cynthia. “Imagine being at the Parliament Exhibition in that first dress you’re looking at,” I said. “It’s a dusty purple. The skirt is covered in lines of dark crystals. Those points you see dotting the skirt are crystals, and there, there is exposed boning in the bodice.” I trailed off, and we stood in silence as the rain battered down around us. Despite the situation, I wanted to smile. I loved designing, even if it was just spinning images into the air in lieu of thread and fabric. “You’ll feel different in it. Transformed. It’s one of those dresses that makes you stand taller and stronger, even if you don’t know why. It’ll show everyone you aren’t afraid to make your own choices.”

  “That sounds nice enough, but it isn’t designed by Madame Jolène,” Cynthia said, almost sulkily, lowering the sketches. “The whole point is the label. I don’t care about anything else.”

  “We don’t have the label, but you will be part of something new,” I said. “You will have something that isn’t defined yet. You’ve been wearing copies of fashions made by seamstresses. We will design you a dress no one has ever seen or worn before. Don’t you want to change the way people see you?”

  “You think it’s that easy? That I can just wear a dress and everything will be undone?” Anger filled her eyes and flushed her face, making her look almost feverish.

  Sophie cut in. “It was a dress that put you where you are today.” The vulnerability that had shrouded her like a black cloud was gone, replaced by poise and, as always, a touch of impatience. “A dress can return you to where you once were.”

  “I can assure you that we will make you a gown of equal, if not superior, caliber to Madame Jolène’s pieces,” I said. “And, since our label is unknown, it will give you intrigue. It will have the magnificence of a couture dress, yet it will mystify. Times are changing. Didn’t you see the protestors outside the gala?”

  Ever so hesitantly, Cynthia nodded, and a surge of victory ran through me. It wasn’t much, but she hadn’t left in a huff.

  Yet.

  “This is interesting,” Cynthia held the stack of sketches out to me. “I need to think about it.”

  Think about it? There was no time for her to think about it. If we wanted to make her gown and the entire collection in time for the exhibition, we needed to start now. I nearly said as much but stopped, biting the inside of my lip. The tinny taste of blood welled onto my tongue.

  “What do you have to lose?” I asked. I didn’t take the sketches back, letting Cynthia remain holding them out to me—a reversal of when I’d held my sketch out to Madame Jolène and she hadn’t taken it. “As far as I see it, no one else is offering to design you a gown.”

  In Avon-upon-Kynt, there was no greater disgrace. Cynthia knew it. She dropped her arm, still holding the sketches, her owlish eyes blinking furiously at me.

  “I have plenty to lose,” she replied. “I could end up in a terrible dress and then people will be talking about me again—but for the wrong reasons. It’ll be like the queen’s jubilee all over again.”

  Taking a decisive step toward me, she shoved the sketches into my hands. I grappled at them, two of them drifting to the ground. Sophie made one of her annoyed, soft sounds under her breath, one that seemed to indicate I wasn’t handling the situation very well. Frustration flickered through me—frustration at them both. As I bent down to pick them up, I closed my eyes for a moment. I needed to change tactics. I couldn’t act like Madame Jolène right now, because I wasn’t Madame Jolène. Cynthia was right. I didn’t have a real line behind my name, not yet.

  “You have good taste, Cynthia,” I said, straightening and trying to sound friendly. She adjusted her fur stole, a hint of pleasure in her eyes at my compliment. “If you see the gown and you don’t like it, you don’t have to wear it. But I promise you, that won’t be the case.”

  “Your sketches are quite lovely—from what I could make out of them,” Cynthia admitted.

  “You should see them in good light,” Sophie said. “And you should know that Madame Jolène recreated an entire gown from one of Emmaline’s sketches.”

  “She did?” Cynthia sounded awed, as though that fact alone was much more impressive than the gown I’d described, or the sketches I’d shown her.

  “Yes, she did,” Sophie said. “Lady Townsley wore it to the Ladies’ Annual Charity Ball, and there was a whole spread of it in the society pages.”

  Despite the tenseness of the moment, I was distracted. I’d avoided the latest society pages—I hadn’t wanted to see my dress sketched out under the Fashion House label. Once a gown was featured in the society pages, there really was no way to remake it, and I hadn’t wanted to face that reality. But now I knew who’d worn it, and I was glad I knew. Sophie might not realize it, but she’d given me something I would carry with me. I hadn’t expected Sophie to care, but she’d remembered that the brocade was originally mine.

  “A whole spread?” Cynthia sounded awed.

  “A whole spread,” Sophie repeated.

  “Is that true?” Cynthia looked at me for confirmation. I nodded, swallowing down my bitterness, measuring it against the hope that it could convince her to trust us.

  Cynthia fell silent and we waited. The
n she said, “Is anything required from me?”

  “We will need forty percent up front,” I said, trying to maintain my calm. She was close to saying yes, so very close. “That will cover the costs of materials, and you can pay the rest upon receipt of the gown.”

  “Payment,” Cynthia repeated. Money matters were always handled delicately at the Fashion House. The customers had private bills, and two secretaries handled the financial aspect of orders. No one discussed money during appointments, because it was much too uncouth. Cynthia’s face pinched with distaste but she said simply, “Very well. Contact my house manager regarding the money. She will see to the details.”

  “Thank you. Thank you very much,” I said. Cynthia extended her arm toward me.

  Our first client. I didn’t realize it until her fingers closed around mine and we shook. For the briefest second, pure, untainted excitement ran through me. There was a very long way to go, and many things could go wrong, but for the time being, I let myself feel nothing but bliss.

  We left Cynthia in the gazebo and returned to the gala, making it inside just as the party reached fever pitch. The air was thick with the sweet scent of champagne as guests danced in uneven circles, their arms raised. Bursts of laughter and loud conversations filled the room, competing with the music. The cacophonous roar thundered through me, but it didn’t disorient me like before. Instead, it felt like everyone was celebrating alongside us.

  I snatched two flutes of champagne off a maid’s tray and handed one to Sophie. Wordlessly, we clinked glasses. I drank, letting the woozy powers of the champagne overcome my senses. A servant appeared to hand us two more and take away our emptied flutes.

  “Emmaline!” Francesco came rushing toward us. “Where have you been? You need to get backstage. The introductions are about to begin.”

  “I’m coming.” My tongue was numbed by the champagne and I giggled. With a tsk, Francesco took the glass out of my grasp. I thought he was going to set it aside, but instead, he drained the very last few sips. Then he took my hand and led me to the opposite end of the room, grumbling about Fashion House Interview contestants and their champagne consumption, even as he plucked yet another flute off a nearby tray and drank it.