Page 48 of A Dress for the Wicked
I picked up the straight pin from the floor and used it to secure my measuring tape in place on the silk. There was no time for daydreams.
Chapter Eleven
THE NEXT DAY,I had another press event—a knighting this time. I didn’t want to leave my silk or buttons in my chamber where someone could ruin them, so I tucked them into the rose-colored handbag assigned to my outfit and brought it with me. A few people eyed my bulging bag, but I ignored them. I’d been sabotaged once. It wasn’t going to happen again.
The knighting included a formal dinner, so it was nighttime when I finally got into the coach to head back to the Fashion House. I struggled to work on my wedding gown in the coach, despite the way it jostled back and forth over the cobbled streets. I’d lost almost a whole day at the event.
When I arrived at the Fashion House, I hurried up to my chamber, arms full of my silk wedding gown. There was still a bit of night left. Sophie, of course, wasn’t there, but sitting on my vanity were two white envelopes. I set the wedding gown down on the chaise longue. One envelope made sense. It would be my Fashion House pay. But the other one had a postage stamp in the corner.
My mother.
She had finally written me.A rush of tears sprang to my eyes, and I ran over to the vanity, snatching up the envelope so fast that I knocked over a small container of straight pins onto the floor.
Only... the writing addressing it to me was a scratchy scrawl, nothing like my mother’s clear, even print. The ache flared up again, as strong as before. I lowered the envelope and the relieved tears in my eyes turned hot. For the first time since coming to the Fashion House, I couldn’t stop them, and they ran down my cheeks. I wiped them away, but they continued to spill down my face.
I opened the envelope. There wasn’t a letter inside. Instead, there was a tourist card, the sort people buy as a souvenir on a trip. It was a glossy print of the train station, featuring the mural of Queen Catherine. Two stick figures—one a boy and the other a girl—were drawn crudely onto the image in graphite.
I flipped it over, and the other side read,
Emmy,
I thought you might like to remember the mural. Also, I added us for posterity’s sake.
—Tristan
I wiped my face with the back of my hand and sat down on the vanity chair. I turned the card back over and stared at the two figures Tristan had sketched onto the picture. Slowly, a smile came over my face.
He was a terrible artist. I didn’t know if it was an accidentor not, but the stick people’s hands overlapped. My smile grew wider. I pictured him passing by one of those stands selling newspapers, maps, and postcards, his bright blue eyes landing on the mural card. It had made him think of me.
I tucked the card into the vanity mirror so I could see it from anywhere in the chamber. With my eyes still fixed on it, I picked up the other envelope, the one with my pay, and slid the flap open. I was so preoccupied by thoughts of Tristan that I didn’t realize something was wrong for a few moments—that there wasn’t any money in it, just the usual white slip. I pulled the paper out, tearing the envelope in the process. Not a single bill was inside it. I read the slip.
FASHIONHOUSEINTERVIEW
CONTESTANT:EMMALINEWATKINS
COMPENSATION FOR ONE WEEK OF WORK
DEDUCTIONS: BOARD, PRESS ATTIRE
No pay at all? There had to be some mistake. I glanced at the clock. I knew Francesco and Madame Jolène dined together in her private apartments at the top of the Fashion House and that after the maids brought down their trays, they would have a glass of wine. If I went now, I could catch Francesco as he left Madame Jolène’s rooms, and he could make sure I was paid first thing in the morning.
Then I could post the money to my mother right away.
Quickly, I jumped to my feet. I clutched the envelope and slip in my hand, not bothering to use the banister as I rushed upthe staircase. It led to the fifth floor, where Francesco’s rooms were located, but it didn’t go all the way up to Madame Jolène’s apartments. Only her private staircase went to the very top, and that was on the opposite side of the Fashion House.
There was a small landing outside the double doors leading to Francesco’s chambers. A gas lamp gave off a weak yellow glow into the night, illuminating a zebra-hide rug, reminding me of his zebra pocket watch. The walls were covered in a bamboo print wallpaper. It gave the impression that an elephant or rhinoceros might emerge from between the stalks at any moment. I stood in the lamp’s small circle of light, my body tense and aching.
I didn’t have to wait long. Francesco appeared on the landing, attired in a loose caftan with fur slippers. His cheeks were ruddy in the dim light and, upon seeing me, he held his arms out to me.
“Emmaline,” he said, the thick smell of wine billowing with his breath. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“I’m sorry to bother you.” I raised the torn envelope and slip. “But I just got this and there wasn’t any money in it. I think there must have been a mistake.”
The loose smile around his lips immediately disappeared and his chest rose and fell with a deep sigh.
“There wasn’t a mistake. After the fashion deductions, there wasn’t any money left.”
“Deductions?” My tenuous hold on my panic slipped even further. “But my contestant wardrobe was already taken out of the first payment.”
