Page 49 of A Dress for the Wicked
“Yes. But we hadn’t tallied up your press attire yet, not to mention all the accessories. In fact, when we did, you actually owed us—quite a lot—but the Fashion House covered the rest.”
“Iowed theFashion House?” I sputtered.
“Well, yes,” Francesco said. “Couture is very expensive, and you need a new dress for every appearance. And we had to use outside vendors for most of the hats and jewelry.”
“This can’t be happening,” I said, more to myself than to him. Money was the last bridge between my mother and me. No, I hadn’t come to the Fashion House for the pay. But when I had it, I knew it would keep the bank at bay and ease those deep lines in my mother’s forehead. When I had it, I could justify leaving her all alone because I could still help her, still show her I loved her. “That was for the past week. Will I get paid again?”
Francesco glanced down at the zebra hide at his feet, as though it might tell him the answer. “Things should calm down after the Parliament elections. Once they do, I’ll talk to Madame Jolène about reinstating your pay.”
“And, until then, I work for free?”
A long time ago, a neighbor woman had brought my mother her old china. She’d unpacked it on our kitchen counter, saying she was happy she could help others and that my mother didn’t need to thank her. I’d been just about table height then, and I was eye level to the chipped bowls, plates, and saucers she pulled out of her basket and placed on our counter.
My mother had told her there was no need to thank her because we wouldn’t be keeping the china. The woman had gasped and sputtered, turning a strange shade of red. Aftershe’d left—with the china packed back into her basket—my mother had bent down, put her hands on my shoulders and said, “We always have our dignity, Emmy. Always.”
I’d allowed Madame Jolène to trot me out to the press. I’d smiled and nodded and eaten dry tea sandwiches at every luncheon, charity event, and dedication in Avon-upon-Kynt, even as my competition time was reduced to practically nothing.I’d worn pink, day in and day out. My sketches had been ruined and no one had even bothered to investigate; my brocade gown had been made without me even knowing. I’d fumed and fussed, but I’d gone on with my duties.
Because that’s what I was supposed to do. That’s what was supposed to get me a chance to win the Fashion House Interview.
“I know it’s frustrating,” Francesco said. “This isn’t an easy life for anyone. Not for me, not for you, not even for Madame Jolène. Just be patient, and time will sort everything out.”
“You don’t understand. I need the money,” I said. “I’m going to talk to Madame Jolène about it tomorrow.”
Francesco sucked in his breath, making his cheeks puff out. He held up both his hands, as though trying to stop me, even though I hadn’t moved a step since he’d arrived.
“I wouldn’t suggest that. Madame Jolène is under a lot of pressure right now, and you should keep your head down. Just wait. Things will right themselves. They always do.” He paused. “It’s late. You should be getting your rest.”
He brushed aside a stray strand of hair from my face. The gesture reminded me of my mother and made my throatcompress. I knew I ought to thank him—he’d always been so kind to me—but, for the moment, I needed to get away.
I should have gone back to my chamber, but I didn’t want to sit there on my vanity stool or lie in my bed, surrounded by Fashion House lavishness. I needed to walk. I needed to think. Grabbing up fistfuls of my pink skirts, I wanted to tear the dress off my body.
I went down the staircase and passed my floor. Then, halfway down to the lobby, I stopped and sank down onto the steps. In the darkness, it seemed as though the stairs went on forever in both directions.
Pulling my knees to my chest, I wrapped my arms around them, my back against the railing. The Fashion House paintings loomed above my head, dark shapes against the wall. I could barely make out the images, but I knew I was sitting below the painting of Princess Amelia’s blue gown.
How things had changed since the first time I’d passed beneath the painting. I’d known Madame Jolène didn’t want me at the Fashion House then—but I hadn’t known all the ways I’d be excluded.
I sagged against the railing, its knobbiness hard against my shoulders. How could I stay here when I couldn’t design—and now wouldn’t even get paid? Yet how could I go anywhere else?
Even though I could only see hints of blue paint picked up by the bit of light from the last landing, I stared up at the painting. Before, I’d seen it as my future: making gowns that shaped fashion. Now I knew the truth behind it. That it was a gorgeousgown that had empowered one woman and ruined the life of another—the duchess.
If only there was another fashion house, one where I would be judged on my designs alone. But there wasn’t...
If someone wore something new or if a collection started without funding from the bank, it could gain enough traction to evade Madame Jolène’s reach.
... unless I made one.
Earlier, when I’d thought about creating a fashion house, I’d dismissed the idea. I’d been angry. Tired. Irrational.
But as I thought about it now, it seemed so bizarrely simple. Someone would need a well-known figure to wear their gown and get noticed by the press. They would have to start a collection without outside funding, and fast, before Madame Jolène knew about it.
And—I did know someone. Well, not directly. But Tristan did. He’d told me so. He’d told me he was going to interview Cynthia, the blacklisted duchess. Everyone talked about her. Granted, they didn’t say very kind things, but attention was attention. If she wore an exquisite gown, something different, people would notice. And what had Tristan said? That theEaglewasn’t under the thumb of the Crown? It certainly wasn’t a reputable paper, buteveryonein Avon-upon-Kynt read it. He could write a story about Cynthia and feature her new gown. He said he always loved writing a breaking story, and this one was sure to fit the salacious nature of theEagle. If they were resorting to writing about mermaids, then they would definitely want to write about real women with real feuds.
But how could I contact her? Would she even agree to wear a dress by a no-name Fashion House Interview contestant? And how would I pay for the fabric?
I violently shook my head. It was enough to dissipate the questions for the time being. One thing at a time. That’s what my mother always said when she was short on the mortgage and the sink was dripping and the stove broken. No matter how many obstacles she faced while running her business, she would somehow figure it out.
I’d always thought that design was all I knew. But I’d spent my whole life watching my mother as she built her pub into a thriving establishment. Without realizing it, I’d seen firsthand what it took to create a business—and the freedom that came with it.
