Page 4 of A Dress for the Wicked
“‘Fashion is the unexpected,’” I said, parroting Madame Jolène’s own quote from a recent article.
A slight smile came to her tight lips, loosening the cornersa bit. “And what is unexpected?”
“‘The elements of an outfit that surprise—and sometimes even confuse—but delight,’” I continued, watching her face for any hint of approval.
Madame Jolène held out her hands, but not for my sketch. Wordlessly one of her ladies picked up one of the Pomeranians and handed it to her. She set it on her lap and slowly ran her fingers over its furry head and down to its beaded jacket. “You presume you have the capability to work for me?”
“I know I do.”
“Bring your sketch here.”
It was a ludicrous request—I had been holding it out to her for the past several minutes. I stepped forward, my limbs moving stiffly. A chill had settled into my bones, or maybe it was the disapproval of everyone around me, their disdain as paralyzing as any cold.
I held my breath as Madame Jolène took the drawing. Her eyes started at the top and then slowly worked their way down the page, in the same way she had observed my outfit. I held still, my breath caught in my throat, twin beats of my heart pulsing in my neck and chest.
“Well drawn,” she said.
I gasped, the sound weak and whispery. I had been so certain she would hate it that her approval was more alarming than any rejection.
“Her choice of colors shows promise,” the woman in the horsehair gown murmured, craning her neck forward to see the sketch for herself.
“It does.” Madame Jolène sounded reluctant. “Where are you from?”
Obviously, she hadn’t bothered to listen when I told her earlier.
“Shy. My mother owns a pub there. I’ve always loved fashion, ever since I can remember, and—”
“A pub? How primitive.” The dog in Madame Jolène’s lap began to yelp. She rose to her feet, pushed her chair back, and stepped around the table, not bothering to set the dog on the floor. It fell to the ground with a yelp.
“Listen to me well.” She seemed to grow taller as she walked toward me. I could smell the chypre scent of her perfume and see the muscles in her face tighten under her skin. “You may be ambitious, but my critics necessitate your acceptance. They say my collections are extravagant and that I have no connection with the common man. Your inclusion in the Fashion House Interview will ease public pressure and appease those ridiculous members of Parliament, nothing more. Understood?”
Acceptance? Her tone was so taut I thought I’d misheard her. It sounded as if she was banishing me for all time, not admitting me to the Fashion House Interview. I wasaccepted? I would live at the Fashion House, create couture, compete to be an actual design apprentice? I glanced from Madame Jolène to the horsehair woman, trying to confirm this wasn’t some cruel joke. The horsehair woman was staring at me as dourly as Madame Jolène.
“Understood?” Madame Jolène demanded again. One of her thinly tweezed eyebrows arched, but it didn’t matter. I, EmmyWatkins, was going to compete in the Fashion House Interview.
“Yes. Thank you,” I said. I wanted to say more, to tell her how much this opportunity meant to me, that I’d do my very best to be chosen as an apprentice at the end, but she had already turned away. I didn’t care. I could prove her wrong. Yes, it would be hard work, and I’d have to fight to be the best. But the one thing that every girl dreamed of—getting into the Fashion House Interview—had somehow happened for me.
“File away her sketch,” Madame Jolène ordered, and the horsehair woman immediately slipped my sketch into an embroidered valise before rattling off traveling instructions for tomorrow morning to me. I listened, but it was hard to concentrate, and it wasn’t because she was speaking quickly. From my peripheral vision, I saw the maid step forward to fold up the newspaper on the desk. The headline, in conjunction with Madame Jolène’s contempt, spoke louder than the woman.
I’d gotten into the Fashion House Interview... but I was the only person who was happy about it.
Long shadows were crawling across the ground by the time I returned home. Since it was Sunday, our pub was closed. I’d heard that in Avon-upon-Kynt, places stayed open even on the Lord’s day, but in Shy, everyone went to church and then to their houses for early dinners and bedtimes.
I walked through our vegetable garden, let myself in the back door, and made my way past the kitchen toward the staircase. The table was set with four place settings of our nice blue china. Crumbs dotted three of the plates, and half-finished teasat in the matching cups. The fourth setting was untouched. Mrs. Wells and Johnny. I’d completely forgotten. Thinking of my mother trying to make small talk with the taciturn Wellses made me wince.
I made my way up the stairs. My room was directly at the top, right across from my mother’s. Slowly, I eased my door open, trying to keep it from creaking, and stepped inside.
“You’re back.”
My mother was sitting on my bed, holding Madame Jolène’s advert.
“I’m—” I started, and then stopped, trying to think of what to say. Suddenly, all I could see were the dark semicircles under her eyes and how, even though she normally stood straight and tall, her shoulders were drooping.
“So, you went to Evert to apply for the Fashion House Interview. Were you accepted?”
There it was. The question hung heavy between us. My mother had made it easy for me, summing up everything so all I had to do was admit that yes, I had been given a spot. Yet it was hard to nod, to confirm everything she’d said.
“Johnny was disappointed you weren’t here.” She changed the topic without any warning—but that was just like her. She was always saying things without saying them, leaving me to read her true feelings between the lines. Over the course of my lifetime, I’d gotten quite good at it.
