Page 60 of A Dress for the Wicked
“Yes, but what if she never worked there?”
Since arriving at the Fashion House, I hadn’t heard a word from her. I’d written her letters and sent her money, but I might as well have sent them into a black void. I’d never expected silence from her.
“If she didn’t, then I’m sure she had a reason not to tell you,” he said gently, soothingly. “Everyone has a right to their secrets. Sometimes they are the only things we truly possess.”
A memory came to me. My fifth birthday. I went down the stairs to find my mother had baked a cake for me. Of course, I’d been expecting a cake. She made one every year for me and, occasionally, for our best patrons. They were always the same: a brown cake dusted with powdered sugar and topped with berries. That year, though, was different.
That cake was covered in the frothiest white frosting I’d ever seen and sprinkled with crumbled candies.
“It’s extravagant, I know,” she said, sounding uncharacteristically embarrassed. “Your grandfather would roll over in his grave if he saw this. But five is a very important age.”
“It’s so beautiful,” I gasped, my eyes nearly as round as the cake.
“Do you think so?” She came to put her arms around me and lift me up so I could see it better. “It’s as pretty as anything you’d see in the city.”
As pretty as anything you’d see in the city.
Before, I’d never given the comment a second thought. But now, it didn’t make any sense. Now, I’d been to the Republic District where the factories were located. I couldn’t imagine anyone having a decadently frosted cake there. In fact, the onlyconfectionery shop was located well within the Quarter District.
“Did your father ever say anything about her time in the city?” Tristan asked. “Maybe she told him more than she told you.”
“I—no,” I stammered. “Actually, I never knew him. He passed away when I was young.”
“Really? So did mine. Never knew the bloke or my mother.” He spoke casually, unconcerned.
“That must’ve been difficult,” I said. His hand was still on my knee, his touch so warm I could feel it through my skirts. “You were an orphan?”
“Raised in the children’s home in the Republic District. But it wasn’t so bad. You don’t miss what you don’t know.”
“I suppose...” Almost without thinking, I placed my hand over his. A startled expression crossed his face and, for a moment, his bravado was gone and it was just him, staring at me.
“Emmaline?” Francesco opened the door. “Sorry, darling, but it’s time to go.”
We both withdrew our hands. I took a deep breath, reordering the bits of myself that’d gone soft and loose under his touch.
“Thank you for checking,” I said as I stood up. It was hard to sound professional, but I had to—Francesco was watching. I doubted he minded (in fact, he seemed to enjoy all affairs, romantic or otherwise), but I didn’t want word getting to Madame Jolène that I fancied a reporter. “I appreciate it.”
“Take care of yourself. You have big things to focus on.” He meant my new collection and Cynthia’s dress, the things that mattered in the here and now. I nodded, but my mind wasn’t on my plan. Instead, it was filled with elaborate cakes, my mother’s eager eyes, and the sensation of Tristan’s hand on my knee.
Chapter Fourteen
THE DAYS LEADING UP TOthe gala were torture. I felt disassembled, scattered. In the mornings I was sent off to press events, and in the afternoons I struggled to work on my wedding gown in the sewing room with the other girls. All the while, I had a hundred imaginary conversations. Most of them were with Cynthia. I would beg her to let me design a dress for her, but no matter how I tried to rewrite it in my head, she said no. The rest were with my mother, only I couldn’t finish those. In my mind, I would ask her,Did you really come to the city? What happened? You didn’t work at the factory as you said, did you?and she would stand there, biting her nails, staring at me with no response.
“It seems like your wedding gown is coming along,” Kitty said as I bit off some thread. I lowered the floss. Kitty’s sewing table was next to mine, but ever since I’d discovered her letter, we hadn’t said much more than good morning to each other. I assumed she didn’t mind. She fit in well enough with the other girls, and they never questioned the sweetness that I now knew was fake. But her hesitant tone made me wonder if maybe, justmaybe, she missed our friendship.
“I suppose so.” As usual, I was far behind the other girls. Everyone else already had their gowns on mannequins. “It is what it is.”
I sounded stiff, but I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t let her in, not like before. Her face fell, and she turned back to her sewing table. I thought she’d get right back to work, but she stared at her mannequin without seeming to see it.
Her gown, as always, was well constructed but too traditional. Now, though, I knew she was intentionally making it classic. Elegant ruffles ran up a fitted bodice on an A-line skirt. It wouldn’t win her the challenge, that was for sure. Of course, she didn’t want it to. Currently, Sophie was at the top of the rankings, followed by Ky and Cordelia. Alice was always solidly in the middle. I, of course, wasn’t even considered a real competitor, but according to my scores, I was just behind Ky. If I hadn’t scored so low in the first challenge, I’d be somewhere equal to or higher than her.
“Your seaming is impressive,” I said. If she’d told me the truth, the compliment would be reassuring. “It shows masterful technique.”
Kitty’s face instantly brightened, and she smiled at me. It wasn’t the too-sweet smile that she dispensed to everyone else. It was grateful. Real. I quickly looked away. We couldn’t be friends—not with that letter tucked away in my vanity upstairs—and I needed to remember that.
At my words, Ky looked up from her mannequin. She’d reined in her usual style for this challenge, but I could still seeit just behind the clean lines of her gown.
“What do you think about Kitty’s gown, Ky?”
