Page 32 of A Dress for the Wicked
“Your uniform,” I said. “When was it designed?”
“This?” Tilda glanced down at her black dress with its bobbin lace trim. “I don’t know. Madame Jolène probably designed it years ago, when she first took over the Fashion House.”
Abruptly, I stood up, wrenching my hair out of her hand. It hurt but I barely noticed. I stepped back, looking Tilda over. Or, more precisely, looking her dress over.
“You ruined your hair,” she complained. I ignored her and opened my vanity drawer, where I kept my Fashion House Interview sketchbook and pencils. I flipped open the book and quickly sketched the general outline of her dress: floor-length A-line gown with bobbin lace edging the cuffs, neckline, and hem. It wasn’t very functional, not with its thick fabric and wide skirts. I couldn’t imagine doing a full day’s worth of work at the pub in such a garment. And while it was pretty, it didn’t feel modern or fresh, even though most of the Fashion House maids were around my age.
Drawing over the original dress, I drew a new one. Slimmer. Shorter. It didn’t have any lace, but it had deep pockets. When I was finished, the new gown sat within the outline of the old one.
“There.” I would need to sketch it out again in greater detail, but it was a start—and a plan.
“Are you redoing our uniforms?” Even though Tilda tried to sound unengaged, she leaned forward to peek at the sketch.
“Yes. The current ones are dated and hardly functional.” I held out the drawing so she could see it. “Wouldn’t it be easier to work in a slimmer dress with a shorter hem? And wouldn’t you like it if it was a little more stylish and fresh?”
“I don’t think that’s the point of the challenge,” Tilda protested. She reached for my hair again, and I sat down so she could finish it. “You’re supposed to improve on a Fashion House design. Like one of the dresses or accessories made for clients.”
“But Madame Jolène did design the uniforms,” I pointed out, wincing as Tilda twisted my hair sharply into a bun and slipped the headband over my head. “So technically, it qualifies.”
“Seems a little desperate, no?” Tilda’s snide tone came back, even as she kept staring at the redone uniform. “Perhaps you’re just worried that you don’t have time to do anything else?”
I played with the ruffle on my interview dress. She was right, to a certain degree. But redesigning the maids’ outfit—as unorthodox as it might be—made sense for me. I knew about work and I knew about fashion. Even if I had all the time in the world to find a subject, this project would intrigue me.
“Emmaline!” Francesco opened the chamber door and poked his head inside. “What on earth is taking you so long? Mr. Grafton is waiting for you.”
Tilda sprayed the perfume that corresponded to the dress—an airy scent of lilacs, apples, and vanilla—from my head to my feet. It settled on my skin in a misty, aromatic cloud.
I followed Francesco out of my chambers, carrying my sketchbook and pencil. I would need them for that thirty-minute break when I would search for my other two items. Ithought Francesco might tell me to leave the sketchbook, but his head was buried in the large leather book that contained the Fashion House agenda. He didn’t say anything until we reached the stairs. “Pretend you are a rich society lady, Emmaline, and you are attending a gala. Would you want a clutch made from an edgy leather with metal trim? Or a white linen one with a gold clasp?”
“I’m not sure I’m the best person to ask,” I said, my mind still on my redesign of the maids’ outfits. “I’ve never been to a gala.”
“The leather is navy while the linen has an embossed pattern on it,” Francesco said, ignoring my initial response.
“Um, I suppose—”
“The leather, right? I knew it. I just knew that was best. No boring linen.” He scribbled a note in the agenda, next to the daily schedule. I wondered if Madame Jolène knew he was using the agenda for his personal notes.
“Yes,” I said, smiling.
“You studied the guide of possible questions and appropriate answers, I assume?” His head remained buried in the agenda.
“I did.” Those had been sent up that morning with directions to have them memorized in time for the interviews.
“And what are they?”
I blinked, my mind as hazy as the cloud of perfume Tilda had sprayed over me. I collected myself, pulling my thoughts from the day’s challenge. “The upcoming collections, how excited I am to be here, how generous Madame Jolène is to include me this season.” It was hard to say the last one in a measured tone.
“Yes, be sure to stress that last point.” Francesco raised hishead, his face mournful. “The Reformists have gotten even more impertinent. Recently, they brought a proposal to Parliament stating that the Fashion House itself should create designs for factory-produced styles.”
“I didn’t know.” I’d never given much thought to the political aspects of the Fashion House, but the idea instantly bothered me. I couldn’t imagine the Fashion House creating cheap designs. It seemed wrong, like asking a prize racehorse to pull a plow.
“This is an important interview, Emmaline. Fashion House Interview contestants rarely get to speak officially to the press,” Francesco said. As he spoke, his usually theatrical expression was replaced by a quiet intensity. “I’ll join you for your other two interviews, but I’ll be attending the queen at her fitting with Madame Jolène during the first one. Be sure to stress that the Fashion House has always been and will always be the future for Avon-upon-Kynt.”
“I will.”
“Now, wait here for a few moments. Mr. Grafton is in the main parlor.” He motioned me to the side of the hallway. “I’ll be right back. Oh, and did I mention the leather clutch would have a knuckle-duster holder?”
He didn’t give me a chance to respond, continuing with his head buried in the daily agenda. I glanced up and down the narrow hallway and stifled a half-frustrated, half-panicked huff. I needed to be working on my redesign, not standing here. I opened my sketchbook, balanced it against one knee, and awkwardly added gold epaulets to the shoulders and a separate choker to the neck.
