Page 30 of A Dress for the Wicked
I swallowed my angst long enough to ask, “Do you know any of them?”
“Only Tristan Grafton.”
I reread the name. I wondered if Mr. Tristan Grafton might be the reporter from the station. He worked at theEagle. Tristan. Tristan Grafton. It had a pleasing sound to it, the sort that would fit a blue-eyed, blond-haired young man.
“Is he nice?” I asked. I wanted to ask what he looked like, but that seemed too bold.
“He is.”
Her usually distant tone had an awkward hitch, enough to catch my attention, but she fell silent.
Giving up on a further response from Sophie, I sat up and slid off the bed, my skirts catching in the blankets. I noticed another Fashion House envelope on my dresser.
What would this one say? That my entire week would be interviews and press events and not to even bother thinking about being a serious contestant?
I opened it. Inside was a slip of paper and four bills. The slip read:
FASHIONHOUSEINTERVIEW
CONTESTANT:EMMALINEWATKINS
COMPENSATION FOR TWO WEEKS OF WORK
DEDUCTIONS: BOARD, ATTIRE
I pulled out the crisp bills and, for the first time that day, I felt something other than frustration. I counted them, hardly believing how much was there. Even with the deductions for board and attire, there was enough to cover a third of the Moon on the Square’s mortgage payment. I clutched them tightly—I’d known contestants were paid, but I hadn’t anticipated it would be this much. Money like this changed things. Money like this could justify me leaving my mother behind and coming here. I would send all of it home, aside from a small bit to keep to send her a gift later on since her birthday was in a few months.
There was a sketch page and a pencil sitting on my vanity. Eagerly, I sat down on the stool. I slipped the bills into my pocket, picked up the pencil, and wrote,
Dear Mother,
Please use this toward the mortgage.
I started to write about the press events and how Madame Jolène made me wear pink and how I’d created the most basic navy coat in all of Avon-upon-Kynt. Then I scribbled out those lines, my motions so violent they tore the paper and left a faint scrawling mark on the vanity top. Across the way, Sophie softly cleared her throat but didn’t say anything.
Slowly, I sat back on the stool, my reflection staring back at me from the mirror. My face was white beneath my suntanned skin, the color drained away. Nothing, not even the thrill of making money, could make me feel secure here.
I picked up the pencil again, but instead of writing a letter, I started sketching a design. As I did, it came alive in my mind: an exquisite purple-gray gown with thin lines of beading and crystals running down the skirt. I lost myself in it until all I saw was the dress and all I thought was,Even if Madame Jolène discounts me, I will find a way to succeed in the next challenge.
Chapter Seven
THE NEXT MORNING,I pulled out the dress and accessories specified for the interviews. It was, of course, a blush gown. Francesco sent up styling directions, dictating everything from which wrists I was supposed to wear the bracelets on to how to carry the handkerchief. There was even a small vial of perfume for me to wear.
Kitty helped me lay out the look on my bed. I surveyed the dress, jewelry, shoes, and perfume, morosely eating macarons from a hamper Kitty’s parents had sent.
“Even this macaron is pink,” I sighed. I popped the last bit of the meringue in my mouth. “That’s the last one I’ll eat. I don’t want to take your entire box.”
“Oh, please do,” Kitty said. Her tone sounded earnest, as though she wasn’t just being polite. “Eat them all, if you wish.”
“Kitty, have you finally set aside your rule-following? Are you trying to sabotage me with a stomachache?”
“Certainly not.” Despite my teasing, she frowned at the hamper. “It’s just that my parents send these each week.”
“Sounds delightful.”
“Perhaps. But you don’t know them. All they care about are appearances. They want it to seem like they have lots of money and that they love me.”
The macaron suddenly seemed too sweet. I swallowed down the last sugary bits. I’d already told Kitty about my schedule and how I wouldn’t have enough time to dedicate to the Fashion House Interview.
