Page 33 of A Dress for the Wicked
The soft mumble of conversation came from behind a thick door with a large glass doorknob. Normally, it would have been impossible to hear through it, but whoever was inside had left the door slightly ajar, and a hushed voice slipped out. It sounded strangely familiar, though I couldn’t quite place it. I lowered the sketchbook, stepped closer, and stretched my neck forward so I could see through the narrow slit of space between the door and its frame.
There was a dark-haired girl inside. She was turned away from me. All I could see was her overly straight posture, black gown, and the snow-white expanse of her neck, visible beneath a chignon of waves.
She was facing a young man. It seemed like they knew each other well. He was tall, but the girl, in her heels, was his height. Dark blond hair fell over his forehead and he said something quietly to her, his eyes fixed on hers. His blue, blue eyes.
I clamped my hand over my mouth to keep from gasping.
The reporter I’d met at the train station and had seen in the sewing room.
A shiver ran through me, just beneath my skin, and I leaned forward even farther, trying to see his face better. His lip was healing. Only a hint of discoloration remained.
The girl asked, “Does it hurt?”
My heart plummeted down to my feet. I recognized this voice as well. There was only one girl with that low, cold cadence. Sophie. Was the reporter—myreporter—courting Sophie?
“You know me,” he said. The smile I’d seen at the train station was gone, replaced by a questioning, grave expression. “Areporter’s job is dangerous. It’s not the first time a subject has punched me for asking impertinent questions.”
“And it’s not the first time you’ve punched someone back.” Sophie moved closer to the reporter, closing the distance between them. Their bodies formed a single, strange silhouette in the middle of the room.
“Sophie,” he said as she leaned in even closer. I held my breath and leaned in, too, as if I were Sophie. Slowly, she tilted her head forward, but just at the last moment, he stepped back, and her long fingers drifted through the air between them.
Numbly, I returned to my former spot in the hallway. I leaned back against the wall and let out a long, slow breath just as Francesco came rushing up the stairs.
“I had a tea tray set up,” he said, pointing to the parlor doors. “A maid will come serve it.”
I blinked and nodded dully. I remembered how Sophie had asked me about him the night before. She’d said he was “nice.” Apparently, he was very nice to her. And what man wouldn’t be? She was as breathtaking as a crescent moon in a pitch-black sky.
Then again, he’d stepped back. She might fancy him, but perhaps the feeling wasn’t mutual.
“Now, where is Mr. Grafton?” Francesco put his hands on his hips and glanced around, as though he—the reporter—might be hiding behind a vase or side table.
“I think he’s in the other room,” I said. My face flushed, and I didn’t dare look Francesco in the eye.
“Is he with Sophie?” Francesco shook his head, his facepinched with impatience. “How unprofessional. Go in and get ready. I’ll send him in.”
I pulled the heavy doors open and slipped into the bright, airy parlor. I walked over to the grouping of tufted Chesterfield furniture—two armchairs and a fainting couch—and settled onto the fainting couch, arranging myself so my ruffles lay neatly against my skirt. I stored my sketchbook and pencil underneath it.
There was a window behind me, and I twisted around on the fainting couch to glance out of it, seeking the soothing familiarity of the sky. The parlor was on the second story, so it was all I could see—one square of blue, dotted with a few gray clouds. But it wasn’t enough. I wanted to be out there, to smell the air and feel the fingers of the wind in my hair.
Then I could let nature overwhelm my senses and forget the reporter and Sophie.
Impulsively, I went over to the window and placed my palm flat against the glass. If I stared straight at the sky and the perfumery’s gables across the way, I could feel like I was out there, hovering between the roofs and the sky.Almost.No matter my imagination, I was indoors and had been—aside from the short walks from hacks to buildings—since I’d arrived. And yet, I still sensed the seasons changing, how summer was slipping into fall.
Though I tried to deny it, I was a country girl. For the first time since arriving, my hands itched for dirt in the same way they itched for pencils and sketch paper. I wanted to bury my fingers in the soil of my mother’s vegetable garden. Just last fall, she harvested a bounty of carrots, yanking them from theearth with firm hands. After a while, she sat back on her heels, a bright orange carrot in her hands, and held it up close to her face, examining it. Dirt stains ran all the way up her forearms. She stayed that way for a long time, until I asked her what she was doing. She lifted her eyes to mine, and I had never seen them so... full.
“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, Emmaline,” she whispered, her voice reverent, like she was praying in church. “It’s the most beautiful thing in this whole entire world.”
“Emmaline?” I hadn’t heard the doors open, and I jumped at the sound of my name, the image of the carrot in my mother’s dirty hands dissipating as I turned to see the reporter enter.
I walked back to the fainting couch and settled down onto it. Instantly, I wished I’d chosen a different seat. The couch was lower than the other furniture, and its pink-and-orange rose pattern clashed with my gown’s shade of pink.
He sat down across from me, reeking of violets.
The door opened again, and Tilda came in. She approached, her eyes lingering longer than necessary on Tristan’s face.
“Would you care for some tea?” she asked him as she bent over the small table and set down the silver tea tray and a small plate of petits fours.
“Yes, please,” he said.
