Page 9 of A Dress for the Wicked
I undid the clasps of the dress I was wearing and slipped out of it, followed by my camisole, crinoline, and drawers.
Knock, knock.
I whirled around, almost tripping over my dress, which lay around my ankles with my undergarments. Only my stockings covered my legs to my thighs, and the realization sent my skin puckering into goose bumps.
“Just a minute,” I called out, turning to awkwardly reachup onto the bed for the gown and struggling to step free of my mound of clothes. “I’m not—”
The door opened, and a girl in a high-necked black dress accented with bobbin-lace appliques entered. I backed up against the bed, clutching the dress to cover myself. I recognized her outfit. The maid who had attended Madame Jolène back in Evert had been dressed in the same lacy, high-necked black dress. This girl was a servant.
“Francesco sent me,” she announced. “Orientation is about to begin. I’m here to help you dress.”
“Help me dress? Oh, I can manage.” I faltered, desperately trying to shield myself with the gown. I could only imagine what Madame Jolène would say if she saw me using one of her dresses in such a manner. My cheeks burned bright pink, much brighter than the gown.
“You’re the contestant from the North, aren’t you?” the girl asked, walking toward me. I tried to back up more, but I was already trapped against the bed. “Well, here at the Fashion House, you don’t dress yourself.”
She whisked the gown out of my hands. I gave a squawk of embarrassment, holding my hands up to conceal myself. The hot flush in my cheeks suffused my entire body. I didn’t know what was more embarrassing: being naked in front of a stranger or being lectured by one.
“Here.” She reached for the new undergarments while I grabbed at the blanket on the bed, futilely trying to use its edge to cover my body. “Foundational garments first.”
She handed me a pair of drawers. I slipped into them andreached out for the camisole and crinoline, but instead of giving them to me, she held them up, sliding the camisole and then the crinoline over my head. Afterward, she wrapped the corset around my waist, fastening the clasps running down the front of it. I was grateful to be clothed again, even if it was only in underwear.
“Corsets have to be worn at all times at the Fashion House,” the girl said as she turned me around to tighten the lacings in the back. I placed my hands flat against the corset. The fabric was thick beneath my fingers, and it extended down to my hips, encasing my entire torso. Satin and lace were molded together over the stiff pieces of whalebone.
“It’s really beaut—” My word cut off as she gave the corset strings a jerk, pulling it tight up against my midriff and forcing the air out of my lungs. My ribs and hips submitted to its molding. I occasionally wore corsets at home, but never this tight. Half the time I only wore my bodice.
“You have a small waist,” the girl said in an observational tone. I wanted to turn from her, but I was like a helpless puppet, the corset ties in her hands keeping me from pulling away. “It helps since you don’t have much by way of hips.”
“Are you a maid here?” I asked. Only a few people in Shy had maids. The ones I’d met were older women. None of them were like this girl.
“I am.”
“What is your name?”
“You’re sweet,” the girl said, all fake saccharine. “Girls from the country aresosincere.”
“Are we? And here I thought we were known for our scathing wit.” I couldn’t help being sarcastic. No one in Shy would be rude for no reason.
“Here, hold your arms up,” she directed, lifting the gown over my head. She didn’t respond to my comment, but she also didn’t say anything else.
The dress smelled of fresh new silk. It was the nicest thing I’d ever had on my body. Even though I wasn’t close enough to the mirror to see myself, I sensed its beauty and craftsmanship, from its fabric to its structured bodice. But staring down at the girlishly pink color, I felt something was...off. I cleared my throat.
“There aren’t any other options, are there?”
“Options?” She made it sound as though I’d asked to attend the orientation in animal skins.
“To wear,” I said, running my hands over my skirt, making sure my voice was even. “It’s just that I’m not quite sure this is the best style for me.”
The maid was silent a moment and then let out a harsh, singular,“Ha!If you want to choose how you dress, then the Fashion House is not the place for you.” She pushed the last button through its corresponding hole. “Now, let’s fix that hair.”
She gathered my dark-blond hair, saying something about country hairstyles versus city ones, but I barely heard her. The Fashion House had always represented freedom to me—creative freedom. I stared down at the pink skirts puffing out around me. Their luster seemed to diminish, and I shifted uncertainly as the maid roughly twisted my hair up into a bun, pulling myhead back as she did so. She procured hairpins from her apron pocket and stuck them into my hair, fastening the bun to the back of my head. By the time she was done, my scalp tingled with her pricks and stabs.
“There!” she announced. She took a few steps back and beheld me from head to toe. Despite her prior rudeness, she seemed pleased with her work.
I turned to the mirror over the vanity, finally able to see myself. For a moment, I stared, entranced. I thought I’d understood the gown from how it felt, but that was a mere glimpse into its beauty. It was a second skin, gliding over the contours of my body. It highlighted my waist and balanced out my hips. The sight drew me in and filled me with excitement. Soon, I would make beauty like this dress.
I wished I’d been wearing something this stunning when I’d met the reporter from theEagle.
“You need to head downstairs to orientation and assessment,” the maid said. “Be sure to hurry. They are waiting.”
