Page 92 of A Dress for the Wicked
“I figured it was better than one of my chicken-scrawl sketches.”
“Those are my favorite!”
“Glad to hear it.” He seemed to notice my distraction. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. Yes, of course. Just worried about the show.”
“That makes sense. You’re taking a big leap, Emmy. Big leaps can elicit some pretty big emotions.”
And so can old proposals.
“I need to get back. The show’s going to start soon.”
“I’ll be right in the front row if you need me.”
His hand went around to the back of my neck and pulled me into him. I let myself be pulled, my worries and fears disappearing as my lips found his.
Only a few people came. They trailed in, picking their way through the theater seats and settling into the most comfortable ones. I observed from behind the curtain. Sophie peered over my shoulder, and the models, standing on their toes behind us, watched too.
“I was hoping more people would come,” I whispered.
“It’s who they are that matters,” Sophie said. “Look! There’s a reporter from theAvon-upon-Kynt Times, and that’s Ms. Walker from theLadies’ Journal. Those two alone are more valuable than a crowd of a hundred.”
Four figures made their way over to us, the stage lights revealing their faces. Alice, Ky, Cordelia, and Kitty. They garnered attention as they moved, their styles differentiating them from the rest of the crowd.
“I didn’t think any of you would come,” I said. I bent downon the stage so I was eye level with them. It was strange seeing them outside of the Fashion House.
“We wanted to see your show,” Cordelia said. “It’s all everyone’s been talking about.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Of course, Madame Jolène doesn’t say anything, but the whole city has been abuzz.”
“It’s true.” Kitty pushed forward. “From the maids to the customers, everyone is dying to see what will happen with your new collection.”
“Kitty...” I’d pushed her to the back of my mind, especially since we left the Fashion House. I didn’t know if she’d been the saboteur—that letter still implicated her. It could’ve easily been her. Or maybe one of the other girls.
But, as they gathered at the edge of the stage, staring up at me, it didn’t seem to matter as much anymore.
“Do a good job.” She reached up and caught my hand in hers. “For all of us.”
The other girls nodded, their eyes suddenly flashing. It reminded me of that first night in the lobby at the Fashion House, how they’d all looked so determined and strong. We really weren’t so different. They’d all come to the Fashion House Interview to escape, to find, to be. For them, like me, fashion put their futures into their own hands.
“I will,” I said. “I promise.”
They found their seats, and as I took one last glance out at the small gathering, my heart started to pound. Raw, nervous energy made me skittish. I wanted to run around or jump upand down, but there wasn’t any room. I had to just stand there in the small space, feeling the heat radiating from the models and Sophie.
“Tristan’s here,” Sophie murmured, more to herself than to me. She hadn’t seen him arrive earlier. I searched the audience for his outline. I found him right in front, like he’d said. He was nothing but a black silhouette against a bulky theater chair. We both stood quietly on the side of the stage, staring at him.
Then Sophie said, “Here, we only have a few minutes. We need to change.”
“Change?”
I glanced down at myself. I was wearing one of her gowns: a black dress with tiny Swiss dots printed over the fabric. It was stylish but hardly memorable, and now it was stained with sweat marks and dried raindrops.
“There’s something for you.” Sophie pointed to a garment bag lying in the corner. I hadn’t noticed it in the rush to get the models dressed. I pushed through the smothering, narrow backstage to get to it. As I undid the strings closing it, I caught a glimpse of purple silk through the bag’s opening.Cynthia’s gown.Sophie had brought it.
“You finished it?”
