Page 7 of A Dress for the Wicked
“The Fashion House? Is that so? Are you the girl from the North? The one picked to be part of the Fashion House Interview?”
I tucked a strand of hair back behind one ear. “Yes.”
“If that’s the case, can I get a comment?” He procured a notepad from his coat pocket and quickly flipped through its worn pages.
“A comment?”
“I’m a reporter for theEagle.” A pencil appeared from the same pocket. “The Fashion House told the press you were going to arrive tomorrow—probably trying to throw us all. I’ve come to check the rail times, so I could come back then. But look. Here you are and here I am. This, my friend, is what you call an exclusive scoop. Now, what is your name?”
He waited, pencil poised over notepad.
“Emmaline, but everyone calls me Emmy.” At my words, he started scribbling furiously in the notepad. “You write for theEagle?”
“Well, yes.” His shoulders slumped a little and he sighed. “For now. But don’t hold that against me!”
“I’m not so sure I should be talking to you.”
TheEaglewas a tabloid notorious for running fascinating stories with dubious origins. Of course, every now and then the tabloids broke big stories. Unlike the more serious papers like theAvon-upon-Kynt Times, they operated independently from the government, so they could print whatever they wanted.
Usually, though, they took this freedom a little too far. In fact, even now I could see the front page of theEagledisplayed on a newspaper stand just behind the young man. Its headline read, “MYSTERIOUS MERMAID FOUND IN THE TYNE RIVER.” He followed my line of sight to the paper and grimaced.
“I didn’t write that one, promise. And now you see what I’m up against. Give me a good quote and you’ll make my day.”
His voice took on an unabashedly pleading note. I opened my mouth, ready to talk, drawn in by his easy charm.
Then, just before I started to recount meeting Madame Jolène back in Evert, I stopped. I might be from the country, but I wasn’t stupid. My mother had taught me to be wary of handsome men.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t have anything to say on the matter.”
The train exhaled more steam onto the platform and it whirled around us in a damp, white cloud. He was nothing like Johnny Wells. As pathetic as it was, Johnny was the only young man I could compare him to. My mother had always kept me away from the few boys in Shy until she started pushing Johnny on me.
“Nonsense!” He made a swirling motion in the air with hispencil as though the gesture could command words from my tongue. “I’m sure you have something to say. Everyone does. You’ve left your home and traveled all this way with a carpetbag and a dream. Hoping to make something of yourself, possibly. Or perhaps hoping to prove someone wrong.”
He spoke quickly, like his mind was jumping from point to point and he could barely keep up.
“Sounds like you’re telling me my own story.”
“Is it accurate?”
“No comment.” I smiled back at him, and he sighed, shaking his head. “Though if you do describe me, can you add a few inches to my height?”
He laughed then, the sound ringing merrily through the station, the sole note of happiness amid the travelers sniping at each other to move or step aside.
“Very well. How does this headline sit with you? ‘MADAME JOLÈNE’S NEW COUNTRY MOUSE ARRIVES TODAY, AND SHE IS QUITE TALL.’” He seemed inspired by his fake headline. He lowered his notebook, giving me a peek. Indeed, he had even written down “country mouse,” with a poorly drawn slice of cheese beside the words. He cocked his head to the side as he stared at me. I tucked my hair behind my ear again. “You look different from what I was expecting.”
“Different?”
“Yes. It’s been the talk of the city. The Reformists Party has always tried to force Madame Jolène to do things this way or that. Normally, she ignores them, which was just fine because the Crown has always supported her. Until now, that is.Everything is shifting, and the Reformists have more power.”
I already knew Madame Jolène didn’t want me at the Fashion House, but from the sound of it, neither did any soul in Avon-upon-Kynt, aside from the oft-mentioned Reformists Party. I glanced from the reporter to the other travelers. Suddenly, their passing gazes seemed cold and mocking, even though they couldn’t possibly know who I was.
“What were you expecting?” I asked almost desperately.
“Oh, you know, a girl with a humble way of talking and lots of freckles,” he laughed. “The Reformists Party wanted someone who looked the part, but Madame Jolène didn’t listen, it seems.”
“Well, people in the country aren’t all humble and freckled.”
“That’s the Reformists Party.” He shrugged. “They tend to caricature the people they claim to help.”
