Page 91 of A Dress for the Wicked
Once our gowns were on that stage, our collection would create its own type of beauty.
We unpacked the garment bags in the cramped space on the side of the stage. Every time I pulled a dress from its bag, I almost knocked into Sophie. We had to hang the gowns awkwardly on a hook anchored to the stage wall, piling them one on top of another. The delicate laces and silks caught on the beadwork, and we struggled to protect them.
There were two unfinished gowns without buttons or corsets, so we would have to sew the models into them. Some seams were misaligned, and we hadn’t had time to alter all the dresses to the models’ proportions. Three hems were much too long, and one dress was puckering along the closure.
“Do you think everyone will notice the imperfections?” Sophie asked.
“Hopefully they’ll see the vision behind the collection, and that will be enough.” I tried to fold a garment bag and give the backstage area some sense of order. “We just need enough interest and private funding to get started.”
The old door screeched open once again. The models trailed in, one after another, and gathered around the front row of the theater seats.
I climbed up the small staircase to stand on the stage. The whole theater spread out in front of me.
“Everyone,” I called, and the models raised their faces to me. “Thank you for coming. Let’s get dressed.”
It wasn’t a very inspirational speech—if it could even be called a speech—but anything I said would’ve been meaningless anyway. Our gowns would speak for us.
The girls obediently started to file back to our makeshiftd dressing area. I stayed for a second longer on the stage, trying to calm myself.
This was the second time in my life I’d been on a stage. The only other time had been at the gala, and I’d been a Fashion House Interview contestant then—or as much of a contestant as I could be. I’d never really been part of the competition.
Now, I was the designer. I pictured Madame Jolène. Not the Madame Jolène who’d stared at me with pure disdain. Not the Madame Jolène who’d stood on the stage at the gala, hands raised and face flashing with true joy, or even the Madame Jolène who walked the Fashion House hallways, overseeing fittings with brisk professionalism.
I saw the Madame Jolène waiting behind the stage, breathing in and out, eyes closed, still. I gave myself my own moment to catch my breath and savor this, then went over to the backstage area to help the girls slide out of their clothes and into ours. I was glad for the rush of activity. Soon, my motions pushed myworries to the back of my mind.
It was an awkward, rushed transition to transform the girls from factory workers into models. Their elbows gouged my sides and their hands clawed my arms as they struggled into their gowns. They wavered like colts taking their first steps as I helped them slip into the heels. Problems arose faster than solutions. Two dresses just weren’t fitting right, and we’d forgotten an all-important champagne lining. One of the models could sew, so we put her to work stitching the last few crystals on the finale veil. Even though we hadn’t moved beyond the small space, I was out of breath and sweaty, as though I’d been running for miles.
“The guests will arrive any moment,” Sophie said to me as I tacked up a hem, stitching faster than I ever had in my life. “We need to light the stage lamps.”
“I have to finish this.” I pulled a needle through dark-gray fabric. “Hold still,” I implored the model. My back, neck, and knees burned from bending down and standing up over and over again, and my voice was hoarse from talking over the models to Sophie.
“Come on,” Sophie said. “I took some matches from the tenement building.”
She tossed a packet to me.
“All right!” I didn’t have the will to protest. I left the needle dangling on its thread from the dress and went out onto the stage.
It was much cooler out there than in the cramped backstage area. The rafters were high above my head and I had to leanbackward to see the rickety platform hanging over the stage. I slid open the matchbox and struck one against the box. It blazed to life, one small pinprick of brightness in the gloomy room.
Each stage lamp had a kerosene glass base and a blackened wick. I wasn’t sure if they would catch, but the minute I knelt down and held the match to the first wick, it burst into a bright blue-orange flame. The mirrored panel behind the lamp magnified its effect. I lit them one by one, until the stage was framed in a half circle of warm light.
“Emmy!” a warm, familiar voice rang out, and a blond head moved up the side of the theater.
“Tristan!” I leaped off the stage and ran to him. Sweaty though I was, I jumped into his arms.
“I’ve missed you,” he murmured into my ear, his arms wrapped around me, his hands spreading across my back.
“I missed you too,” I said. I buried my face into the side of his neck, staying still in his arms for one minute, two, three. For once, I was safe, held in his embrace. “It’s been so busy.”
“Anything I can help with?”
“Unless you’ve somehow learned to sew, I don’t think so.”
“I have something for you.”
Tristan let me go and walked back to one of the theater seats and snatched something from it. He came back down the aisle, carrying a single rose. Its fluffy head was a brilliant red. “This is for you. To congratulate you on the show.”
“I love it.”
