A Dress for the Wicked

by Autumn Krause

  The stage was much larger up close. Its curtains seemed to reach the ceiling, and the backdrop of the stage—the intricate, floral-festooned FH insignia set against a light-gold background—was about twelve feet tall. We rounded the side of it, and Francesco pointed to a small set of stairs.

  “When you hear your name, walk up those stairs. I’ll introduce you. Just smile and wave and then move to the back. Until then, make sure you’re out of sight behind the stage.”

  “I understand.” I glanced around, wondering if a maid with another tray of champagne glasses might be nearby. No such luck.

  Francesco hurried away. I made my way to the back of the stage, stepping around the supports propping up the backdrop. Then I saw her. Madame Jolène, standing between two humongous beams. Awkwardly, I came to a stop.

  She was on a small platform with gears attached to the sides, the sort that could lift a performer onto a stage for a grand entrance. All the fuzziness from the champagne evaporated. Madame Jolène was one of the few people who could sober one up with her presence alone.

  Her huge skirt was laid out perfectly around her. In the dim backstage light, the embroidery stood out even more against the dark fabric, giving it a stark appearance. I’d never seen her alone before, without so much as a tiny dog at her feet. Her typical aura of haughtiness was gone, replaced by a quiet stillness. With her hands down at her sides and her eyes closed, she took a long, slow breath in through her parted lips and then exhaled.

  I stepped back, hidden by one of the beams. Her quiet was mesmerizing, intoxicating. Her posture was all strength—her back perfectly straight, as always—but her face was completely relaxed, open. I stared, unable to look away.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” Startled, I realized Francesco was on the stage. I couldn’t see him, but his theatrical timbre rang out across the atrium. Immediately, the musicians stopped playing, and I heard the rustle of gowns and footsteps as everyone drew toward the stage en masse. “It’s been quite the evening, but it’s time to direct our attention to the one thing that draws us together: the Fashion House. In Britannia Secunda, we stand alone in the world. We are fed not by crops, but by beauty.” I smiled a little. Francesco’s speech was a tad exaggerated, but it captured what it meant to be from Britannia Secunda. “Our times are difficult, and I hope we remember what the Fashion House means to us all, whether we are rich or poor. So, with that in mind, it is my pleasure to introduce Emmaline Watkins, our contestant from the country. She represents the Fashion House’s commitment to broadening its horizons and working with the Reformists Party.”

  I picked up my skirts and carefully stepped onto the stairs. My heels wobbled on the thin wooden steps. There was no handrail, and I focused hard, breathing a sigh of relief when I got to the top in one piece. Francesco gestured to me, and I moved out onto the platform. A sea of people stretched out in front of me. My limbs moved slowly, jerkily, like a poorly made marionette, and my mouth was as parched as Shy during the height of summertime. Where was I supposed to look? Hundreds of people stared at me and I tried not to shift awkwardly. Most of the faces were curious, peering at me as though I were a strange specimen. And to them, the wealthiest people in our country, I most likely was. A few of them smiled, but not in a kind or gracious way. Their lips twisted maliciously, and they whispered to each other behind gloved hands and fans, laughing at the girl from the country up on the Fashion House stage.

  “I’ve personally enjoyed having Emmaline among our new season’s contestants.” Francesco smiled warmly at me, and I weakly tried to smile back. I’d been so consumed with my scheme that I hadn’t thought much about whether it was the right or wrong thing to do. Francesco had always been kind to me—and turning against Madame Jolène meant turning against him as well.

  Francesco motioned for me to step aside, his face flushed with excitement.

  “And now, the guest of honor, Madame Jolène Marchion!”

  The whole stage vibrated, and the sounds of gears turning and grinding rose from underneath the stage. A small door opened in the floor, and Madame Jolène was lifted through it. Gasps erupted around the room and blended into a singular sound of awe. With effortless ease, she took one step forward to stand in the center of the stage.

  “It is such a pleasure to see each of you here,” Madame Jolène said, facing the guests. Normally her face was frozen, but tonight, she was alive, her eyes sparkling and her cheeks glowing with a rosiness I had never seen before. All the quiet from before was channeled into a magnetic energy. She raised her hands to the crowd, perhaps in offering or entreaty. Everyone fell silent, waiting beneath her outstretched arms. For the first time, I noticed a line of embroidery under the sleeve of each arm, running all the way to the cuffed wrists. It had been hidden before, a detail that only revealed itself with movement.

  “I thank you for indulging my artistic fancies,” Madame Jolène said, “and for journeying with me. I find, to my great surprise, that each collection is a maze with one path. I am always lost until I end up in the same place.”

  A shiver ran over my arms and legs. Not the terrifying shiver that Mr. Taylor elicited. This was completely different. This was warm and delicious. I wanted it to last forever.

  Madame Jolène dropped her hands to her sides and lowered her voice to a near whisper. Everyone strained to hear.

  “I am excited to announce the theme for my fall collection.”

  The crowd surged forward in a soundless charge, desperate to hear but trying to stay quiet. I was swept away into their eagerness, listening with every bit of my attention, the magic of the moment trilling through me.

  “It is”—Madame Jolène paused, her hands clasped in front of her—“Papillion Nue.”

  Applause erupted and echoed off the atrium’s glass dome. The audience glanced at each other, nodding in approval and exclaiming in eagerness.

  I knew from Madame Jolène’s lyrical pronunciation that papillion nue was French.

  “Francesco!” I shouted over the noise. He was clapping with all his might and didn’t hear me. “Francesco! What does papillion nue mean?”

  “Naked butterfly,” he said over the noise.

  I rested back onto my heels. Naked butterfly. I imagined gowns embroidered with the delicate membranes of a butterfly’s wings and fabrics in both the bold and muted colors of monarchs and chrysalises. I imagined a skirt disintegrating into small butterflies and the raw, skeletal outline of a butterfly on a bodice. The name papillion nue itself provided the story. It was easy to fill it in with images.

  As everyone cheered, Madame Jolène stood on the stage, her hands still raised and her chest dramatically rising and falling. I remembered her eyeglasses, the ones shaped like a butterfly’s wings. She must have been thinking about the collection for the whole past year.

  “Papillion Nue,” Madame Jolène repeated. Instantly, the crowd quieted, only this time it was an agitated, ripe silence, as though they might break into applause at any moment. “A butterfly is often a symbol of spring. However, I want to explore the vulnerable, weaker side of these creatures. So, I have incorporated the element of nakedness and put the butterflies’ context in fall.”

  “Inspirational,” Francesco said as he stepped forward. “I know I speak for us all when I say we cannot wait.”

  I kept clapping with everyone else, but suddenly the cold truth hit me. I wasn’t part of this. I couldn’t get excited about the collection or fantasize about helping to create it. This belonged to the other contestants—to Madame Jolène and the rest of Britannia Secunda. I was outside of it, and for once, it wasn’t anyone else who was trying to keep me out.

  I’d done that all on my own.

  The Fashion House Interview competitors were the last to leave the gala. By the time the hacks came for us, the guests had left. We collapsed into the chairs and benches along the outskirts of the ballroom, watching as the servants put the room to rights again. There were remnants of the party everywhere—emptied champagne flutes with l
ipstick marks set in the most surprising places, forgotten fans and dance cards strewn about, and half-eaten appetizers scattered across silver trays and napkins. I could almost recreate where the attendees had been and what they had been doing.

  My throat was sore and my hands stung from clapping. After so many hours of wear, my dress had become an instrument of pain. Its boning dug into my ribs, and I struggled to breathe around its constriction. My head ached, but I didn’t know if it was from exhaustion or from the stress—and excitement—of the evening.

  “Ladies, your hacks are here,” a servant called to us. We slowly stood up, wincing from our too-tight dresses and too-high heels, and made our way back to the main entry.

  “Emmaline,” someone called to me from a side room. I turned, confused. Then I saw him.

  “Tristan!”

  He was standing in a small parlor right off the lobby. I hurried over to him, nearly tripping over my skirts. At the last moment, I slowed and stopped a few feet away. I’d already seen him outside, in the chaos of the protest, but I hadn’t taken in his appearance. His suit was obviously cheap yet classic, and his hair was parted to the side, though some of the strands flopped free onto his forehead.

  “Were you here the whole time?” I asked, coming closer. “I didn’t see you at the gala.”

  “I spent most of the evening covering the protest. Then I slipped in here so I could do a write-up on the new theme. I arrived just in time to see you get presented.”

  “You saw me up on the stage?”

  “Yes.” He grasped my hands, pulling me farther into the parlor and, at the same time, nearer to him. Glancing around, he whispered, “Did you meet with Cynthia?”

  “Yes,” I whispered back. “It went well.”

  He nodded but kept holding my hands. We stood, facing each other, our hands bridging the space between us. I glanced from his face to our clasped fingers and then back to his face again. He quickly let go, mumbling, “Sorry.”

  “Oh!” I said at the same time. It’s fine, I wanted to say. I like holding your hands. Nervously, I moved to tuck a strand of hair back from my face, but my hair, since it was so perfectly done, didn’t have any loose pieces. I lowered my arm.

  “I’m glad it went well,” Tristan said, his voice clipped and formal. “I just—I wanted to make sure your plan was working.”

  He couldn’t seem to keep his eyes on mine, and he shifted back and forth in front of me. I watched him, confused.

  Suddenly, he let out a deep breath and said, “I’d like to see you. As your suitor.”

  As my suitor? My heart was suddenly a bubble racing to the top of a champagne glass, all light and air and lift.

  “You would?”

  I smiled, a huge, overly happy, too-big-for-my-mouth smile. The sound of the smile spilled into my voice and Tristan raised his head, his eyes flashing with hope.

  “I would.” He grinned too. “Do you—what do you think?”

  “I’d love that.” I heard myself answer him, and marveled at how calm I sounded when, inside, my champagne-bubble heart was bursting into a thousand more champagne-bubble hearts. They swept me forward, to him. With a confidence I didn’t know I possessed, I put my hands around his neck.

  Though I was emboldened, he suddenly seemed shy. “I-I’m glad.”

  Slowly, almost cautiously, he placed both hands around my waist. There wasn’t any music, but we swayed slightly, staring into each other’s eyes. He leaned in, as though to kiss me, and then hesitated. I laced my fingers together behind his neck, closing the space between us even more.

  There was another second of hesitation and we moved forward together. When he kissed me, it was nothing like Johnny Wells’s kiss. This one was impetuous and free. I wanted to breathe it in like air or sunshine.

  “The hacks are here!” someone called from the lobby. Though the shout was coming from right outside, it sounded miles away.

  Tristan stepped back, releasing me except for the hand that interlaced my fingers with his.

  “You need to get going.” He sounded husky.

  “I know,” I said. Or thought I said. My words were almost gasps, exhales as gentle as his touch. “When will I see you again?”

  “I’m not sure.” His voice was still husky and slow. “It isn’t like a tabloid journalist can hang about the Fashion House without official business. But I’ll find a way to come see you, I promise.”

  He reached out his other hand and brushed my cheek with it. I leaned my face into his palm, closing my eyes for a moment. The giddy, golden sensation from the kiss expanded inside me.

  “Let’s go, ladies!” the same person called again. Without even realizing what I was doing, I leaned forward and kissed Tristan again. My body, it seemed, knew what I desired. “Ladies!”

  “I’ll come see you as soon as I can,” he murmured into my ear.

  I stepped away, grabbing up my skirts with one hand, but leaving the other still holding his. I held on for as long as I could, our hands stretching out between us before we had to let go.

  “There.” Tilda undid the last button on my gown with a crochet hook. Finally, it was off. I stepped out of my gown, instantly feeling a hundred pounds lighter. The dress was so stiff with boning and crinoline that it stood up on its own. Tilda helped me undo my corset and camisole. The corset and gown had left deep red marks around my stomach and ribs. By morning, they would turn into bruises.

  “My back is so sore. You’d think I scrubbed an entire kitchen floor,” I said, slipping into my thin silk robe. I kicked off my heels. They were higher than the ones I usually wore. The soles of my feet were blistered and my toes ached. I flexed them, trying to undo the damage.

  “You’ve scrubbed a kitchen floor?” Tilda scoffed.

  “I have. What do you think I did back home in Shy?” I sat down at my vanity and started to pull hairpins from my locks, leaving the dress upright in the middle of the room.

  “What . . .” Tilda hesitated. “What was it like tonight? At the gala?”

  Her question took me off guard. The gala was like a fever dream. The protest, Mr. Taylor and Sophie, Cynthia. Walking in the rain. Kissing Tristan. Butterflies. I was happy it was over—but some part of me knew it had been, in many ways, the most memorable night of my life.

  “It was magical.” I picked up a washcloth, dipped it into the basin of water on my vanity, and wiped my face. The face paint I’d been forced into stained the cloth. I gave my cheek a firm swipe and my old face emerged. It was less impressive without the paint, but I liked seeing myself again.

  Sophie entered the chamber. Her hair swayed freely down her back. Her dark eye paint was smudged, as though she had rubbed it, but it only served to make her more mysterious. She was wearing an evening robe, and it flared open to reveal a black corset edged with crystals and embroidery. Sheer panels showed hints of the milky skin around her stomach, and it cinched tightly around her waist with black laces up the sides. A lover was meant to see that kind of corset. Aside from the finger marks still marring her neck, she looked perfect.

  She made her way over to our chaise longue, kicking off her heels and sending them catapulting across the room.

  “You’re dismissed,” she said to Tilda, without bothering to look at her. I winced. No matter how often I heard it, I couldn’t get used to the haughty voice everyone used with the maids, much less use it myself. I tried to catch Tilda’s eye, but she quickly left. It was just as well. There was much Sophie and I had to discuss.

  “Well, there’s lots to do,” I said. “We need to get the money from Cynthia.”

  Sophie didn’t respond, her fingers searching through her tousled hair, looking for lost hairpins. “Do you have a bank account?”

  I certainly didn’t. But a girl of pedigree, a girl like Sophie, would.

  “I do.” Sophie extracted a black hairpin from her hair and flicked it onto the marble. “Alexander used to put funds into it, but he hasn’t since I left his manor.”

  “The
telegraph office is just up the street,” I said. “I’ll say I’m sending my mother a wire and I’ll message Cynthia’s house manager to transfer the forty percent there. It’ll be a lot of money. We can buy the finest fabrics, threads, and beads to create her piece.”

  Thoughts of sumptuous silks filled my head. My fingers thrummed with excitement as I imagined touching them and crafting them together to create something wondrous.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Sophie abandoned her search for hairpins and lay down on the chaise longue, stretching. With a soft sigh, she arched her back and pointed her toes. “We should use it to buy all the materials for our collection. Otherwise, how will we afford them?”

  “But Cynthia thinks the money is going toward her gown.” I chewed on my lower lip. “I suppose we could buy a midrange silk and just a few crystals.”

  “We should supplement them by scrounging the beads that fall off the Fashion House gowns in the fitting rooms. Those always get thrown away, so no one will notice.”

  “Isn’t that stealing?”

  Sophie grimaced with annoyance and tapped her fingers on the chaise’s one-sided armrest. “Who cares? They’re going to get thrown out anyway. And we won’t have any other way to fund the collection if we don’t stretch the money to buy everything we need.”

  I didn’t let myself consider the consequences. Stealing beads was the least of my crimes. I rubbed my forehead, the champagne from the night combining with my exhaustion and rising to my head. “We also need to start thinking about our collection. We’ll each need to design at least four looks, and I’ll create the pattern for Cynthia. Her client card should still be in the filing cabinet with the rest. I’ll have the pattern done by Tuesday. How about we meet up in your fitting room?”

  There was much to do. I tried not to think about how we would manage it, all the while sewing our weddings gowns for the challenge. No matter what, we needed to appear to devote plenty of time to Lady Harrison’s bridal dress.