Page 24 of A Dress for the Wicked
Ky suddenly stopped, dragging Alice to a standstill with her. She looked over her shoulder at me. I hadn’t realized it, but I’d gotten much too close, and she’d sensed my presence. I took a few steps back, but it was too late. “Can I help you?” she demanded.
“Oh, sorry.” I blushed. They glared at me with twin looks of disdain before sweeping by. As they did, they leaned into each other to whisper. They didn’t bother to make sure I couldn’t hear.
“She’s so uncouth,” Ky said.
“I know. It’s embarrassing, really. She’s better suited to be a maid.”
I knew they didn’t think much of me, but hearing it out loud made my insides shrivel. I watched them go, their arms still intertwined.
Down in the fitting room hallway, a large schedule was posted on the wall. It listed our names and individualized schedules for the day: which customers we would see and at what times. Beneath the list were the white cards for each client tucked into a corresponding pocket, specifying her measurements and wardrobe needs.
My name was near the bottom of the alphabetized list.
EMMALINEWATKINS,FITTINGROOM 7—
LADYELLENPAIGERAYMOND—FINAL WEDDING GOWN FITTING
LADYMATILDADAWSON—FINAL EVENING WEAR FITTING
LADYELEANORWESTON—FINAL EVENING WEAR FITTING
I skimmed over the other contestants’ schedules, coming to Sophie’s.
SOPHIESTERLING,FITTINGROOM 1—
DUCHESSEMERYCROSS—CUSTOM GOWN CONSULTATION
All the other girls had custom gown consultations as well or, at the very least, first fittings or accessorizing appointments. I’d been given the leftovers, the nearly completed clients. My heart sank—Madame Jolène didn’t trust me with the more complex appointments. That much was clear.
I grabbed my clients’ measurement cards (not that I needed them) and headed down the hallway to fitting room seven. It was at the very end, and I passed the other girls to get there. They didn’t say anything, but their eyes followed me.
They knew.
They knew I’d failed at the first challenge and that I really was there just to improve the Fashion House image. I wanted to close the curtain of my fitting room and curl up on the upholstered bench inside. But I couldn’t. I had to keep going.
I hoped that I would get more advanced appointments the following day. Or the next. But each morning, the schedule was the same. Last fittings for me, gown consultations for everyone else. It went on this way throughout the next week. Even on themorning of the second challenge, I stood in my fitting room with yet another final fitting. My client, Lady Ellen Paige Raymond, exclaimed, “I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe!”
Her eyes bulged and sweat plastered her curls to her face. I was gasping for breath too. A tingling sensation shot to my wrists as I forced my fingers to loosen their grip on her corset strings.
“No! No! Tighter!” Lady Ellen and her mother, Lady Vienna, cried in unison.
“Are you sure?” I didn’t want to be responsible for cracking Lady Ellen’s rib cage. Not when her wedding was only four weeks away. Still, I needed to make sure the ivory silk satin bridal gown hanging on the dressing room hook would fit over Lady Ellen’s girth. According to the notes pinned to the garment bag, the dress had been sized down in hopes of Lady Ellen’s weight loss. Whoever decided on this may have been a tad too optimistic.
“Of course she is sure!”
Suddenly Madame Jolène was striding toward me, resplendent in a mint-and-brown Persian-inspired brocade gown. Startled, I dropped the corset strings.
Madame Jolène slipped her spectacles into her bodice and placed her hands on either side of Lady Ellen’s waist, her rings sparkling in the dressing-room light.
“The dress is designed to pull your waist in three inches.” She unwound the measuring tape circling her neck like a yellow snake and wrapped it around Lady Ellen’s circumference. “Two more inches,” she declared. “Is that a problem, Emmaline?”
“Oh, no, of course not!” I exclaimed, my numb fingers fumbling for the corset strings.
“You can’t be tired from doing one little corset. After all, that is a basic element of your job. Is this fundamental skill too strenuous for you?”
“I’m not tired at all.” My already flushed face grew even hotter, until my skin was burning. The corset creaked around Lady Ellen’s width, and even though the fitting rooms were humming with the Fashion House sounds—snipping, ripping, rustling—an angry buzzing in my ears drowned it out.
“Well, please try to make more of an effort,” Madame Jolène said. She stepped back. “Are thoseflatsyou are wearing? Where are your heels?”
