Page 3 of A Dress for the Wicked
Madame Jolène was supposed to reach out for my sketch. She was supposed to understand that I didn’t belong in Shy and that I belonged at the Fashion House. Even though the tent was cool and the artificial breeze from the fan wafted over my skin, my face burned hot.
“Madame Jolène,” I said, trying to make her look at me. A fluffy white hairball of a dog started yipping, its high-pitched bark swallowing my words. “Madame Jolène!” I said again, loud enough to quiet the dog. “I think I could do very well in the Fashion House Interview. In fact, I know I could.”
“My dear girl,” she said. Her smile was full of pity. “The candidates for the Fashion House Interview are handpicked from hundreds of girls. Educated girls who understand not just fashion but high culture. Education is the cornerstone for creativity, and you are woefully lacking.” She pushed her chairback, and it scraped across the wooden floor, making a dark, gruesome sound. “I have seen enough. I won’t cater to this nonsense.”
Her words sent my heart straight up into my throat and I stepped forward, still holding out my sketch. She was moving away, and I had to stop her—she hadn’t even seen my work. She couldn’t turn me down, not like this.
“You should go.” The woman in the horsehair gown nodded at the maid. She came forward, ushering me out.
“Wait!” I said loudly, desperately. Yet it had no more effect than the yipping dogs. No one even glanced in my direction.
“Of course, we appreciate you coming,” the horsehair woman said brusquely. I turned toward her, ready to entreat her to help me—anything to make it all stop so I could explain and show them I belonged. The maid’s firm hand landed on my shoulder, and she shoved roughly.
And then, just like that, I was outside, stumbling over tufts of dead grass, my senses jolted from the blinding sunlight and drastic change in temperature. It happened so quickly that, for a moment, my lips were still parted as I tried to protest.
“Record time,” the man with the three pocket watches said. “I was hoping you would rescue us from this godforsaken wasteland of a place.” He turned his face to the cloudless blue sky. “I dream of... sorbet.” He sighed longingly, sweat glimmering on his forehead.
I could barely hear him, much less reply. My breath was short, like I’d been running, and I started sweating again but not from the oppressive heat. I crumpled my sketch into a tightball, the outline of the dress disappearing with the clutch of my hand and the crinkle of paper.
“Oh, honey.” His face softened underneath its sheen of perspiration and smudged eyebrow charcoal. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. It’s not you. It’s Madame Jolène. Let’s see it.” He held out his palm. Automatically, I placed the ball there, my movements dull, as though I wasn’t the one making them.
The man propped his foot up on one of the tent stakes, spread the drawing across his knee, and stared at it in silence for several moments. The zebra on his pocket watch leered.
“It’s good,” he said. He ran his hand over it, smoothing out the wrinkles. “It’s quite good.”
“It doesn’t matter. Madame Jolène didn’t even see it.” Talking sent nauseous waves through my stomach, and a disgusting, bitter taste rose on my tongue. Nothing made sense. Everything inside me had pulled me to this place and tricked me into believing my dreams were coming true. Despair, strong and thick like tea dregs, surged with the taste of bile. I glanced around, trying to determine the best place to vomit.
The man’s charcoal-darkened eyebrows arched. “She didn’t even see it?”
“No.”
“Well.” The man brushed his hand over the sketch one more time, but the creases still crisscrossed the paper. “That’s a shame. It’s lovely. The best I’ve seen all day, or my name isn’t Francesco Mazinnati. I imagine you’re the closest thing to style this place offers. The last thing I want is for Madame Jolène to hire a girl who only knows about dressing scarecrows.”
He smiled at me. It was a strange sight, especially since the charcoal on his eyebrows had started to run down the sides of his face. He handed the sketch back to me, his movements careful, as though it was a fine painting or a drawing from Madame Jolène herself.
Somehow, his actions quelled my nausea. I stood there, gathering myself. I’d just been inside the coolness of the tent, but the heat of the day had already begun to reclaim me—as though the country was pulling me into itself again. I was surrounded by a barren wasteland of dead grass and sunbaked trees, the backdrop of my childhood and, if I kept standing there, my future.
I didn’t give myself time to think; otherwise, I wouldn’t have been able to move. I would have stayed rooted to the scorching ground forever. Without a single thought or word to the man, Francesco, I walked to the tent flaps and stepped through them to face Madame Jolène once again.
This time, she was standing in the middle of the tent, her little dogs and her servants revolving around her in chaotic circles.
“Madame Jolène!” My shrill voice cut through the commotion. Everyone froze, their eyes fixing disdainfully on me, as though I was a drunk stumbling into Sunday liturgy. Even the little dogs went still, like they knew I was breaking some sacred rule of etiquette and were quite appalled.
Only Madame Jolène remained in motion. She cast one glance at me and then threw an annoyed hand into the air, sending her bracelets spiraling down her wrists. “You again? What on earth do you want?”
My fingers clenched so tightly around my sketch that they added more wrinkles to the paper. The room’s coolness swept across my skin. Still, I made myself speak.
“I think you should see my sketch.”
“You think I should see your sketch?” Her words were razor sharp. I didn’t say anything else. I simply held it out to her. The horsehair woman let out a scoff, but I remained where I was, arm extended into the air, sketch hanging in empty space.
Madame Jolène didn’t take it. Instead, she pursed her lips, considering me. My face had to be flushed as red as Madame Jolène’s dress.
Madame Jolène had looked at me before, but only in condescension. This time, her eyes ran from my worn, low-heeled shoes, over my old dress, and to the yellow feather in my hair. They stopped, lingering on the feather. Her gaze wasn’t cruel or unkind. Instead, it was detached. I wanted to squirm under the weight of her attention, but I knew I shouldn’t. I forced myself to remain still, chin up and shoulders straight.
“Interesting choice,” she said. “Yellow feather and purple gown. Very interesting. Tell me, dear...” The worddearsounded neither affectionate nor playful from her lips. “How did that little idea pop into your head?”
She stepped back behind the table and the maid rushed forward to pull out her chair. Without even pausing, she sat down on it.
