Page 31 of A Dress for the Wicked
She’d listened, her brow furrowing with concern, and had said, “That is a tight spot. But do your best and show Madame Jolène that you can offer the Fashion House a lot more than press attention.”
“I doubt she’ll ever believe that,” I’d replied, nearly shuddering as I’d remembered the way she’d stared at me and how her gray eyes had filled with spite. “She’s already decided I won’t win.”
Now I wanted to comfort Kitty in the ways she comforted me. But what did I know of cold, uncaring parents? My mother, despite her firm ways, loved me and did everything she could to give me a better life, while Kitty’s parents demanded thatsheelevate their status.
“Don’t worry about me,” Kitty said, seeming to see my concern. “I find satisfaction in doing things the right way. It’s my form of rebellion. And as for my parents”—she shrugged—“they are who they are. But never mind that. Let me help you into the dress. You’re running short on time.”
She helped me lower the gown over my undergarments. Tilda was scheduled to come and help me and, as usual whenever I needed her, she was nowhere to be seen.
Yesterday, I’d been dressed so quickly and sent off to the library wing dedication that I’d hardly had time to look at myself. Today, I could fully see Madame Jolène’s vision for me. The pink dress had an angular row of ruffles running from the waist to the hem. Thankfully, the ruffles on this gown were stiff, sharp, and modern, even if they featured a faint vine pattern.
Kitty turned me toward the mirror. “Ooooh, Emmaline, you look beautiful!”
I stared at my reflection. Kitty was right. Madame Jolène was right. The gown had a huge skirt, which accentuated my slender waist. The Queen Anne neckline enhanced my lacking bust. The manipulation of the fabric and the sharp crease of ruffles running down the front inspired drama. Somehow everything fit... yet too well. I shifted, staring hard at my image. It was too perfect.
“It’s so expected,” I said to Kitty.
“It’s classic. You look like a country princess.”
“I suppose so.”
The door jostled open and we both looked up to see Tilda enter, her expression as dour as ever.
“You’re late,” Kitty said. She didn’t adopt the harsh tone that Madame Jolène and Sophie used when speaking to the maids, but she was stern. “You should’ve been here an hour ago.”
“So sorry,” Tilda said, but she didn’t bother to offer an excuse. She came up to me and motioned for me to sit down so she could do my hair.
“Well, I have to go,” Kitty said. She didn’t say it, but I knewshe needed to search for Fashion House items to redo for the challenge. The other girls were combing the different floors for gowns and accessories to improve as we spoke. “Good luck with your interviews.”
“Thank you for taking the time to help me,” I replied. I watched her leave, wishing I too could go and rifle through sketches at the Fashion Library and stare at the gowns displayed on mannequins in the Presentation Lounge. There were thirty minutes between my second and third interviews. That would be my time to strike. I’d have to rush, undoubtedly. But it was my only true chance to find three items to redesign.
“Floral headband...” Tilda read the instructions for my look. The headband sat on my vanity and she picked it up, smiling amusedly at its overly girly print. “Well, isn’t this sweet?”
I bit the inside of my lip, hard. Tilda would never dare to be so familiar with the other contestants. Then again, they wouldn’t allow it. They—and anyone else of note at the Fashion House—treated Tilda and the rest of the staff with impersonal coolness. I couldn’t bring myself to do the same. I knew what it was like to do thankless work, the kind that ended in dishes that would just need to be scrubbed again the very next day.
But there was something about the way Tilda treated me. She wasn’t just familiar with me—she was rude. And, though I assumed she hadn’t meant to, it had been her words that made me doubt myself for the first challenge.
“The next time I need you, please be here.” I didn’t speak harshly, but I channeled the voice my mother used when speaking to vendors who were late on deliveries. Not mean, but firm.
“Of course,” Tilda said, yet she sounded flippant. She gathered my hair up in her hands. “I saw your coat.”
“You did?”
“Yes. Madame Jolène had me pack up the... well, theless successfulcoats. They were donated to charity.”
Donated to charity.With just those three words, I was wavering on the brink of despair again. Had I really donethatpoorly in the first challenge? I swallowed hard, struggling to contain myself. I couldn’t give in to doubt. I wouldn’t let myself.
“Is that so?” I evenly met Tilda’s gaze in the vanity mirror. “That’s kind of her.”
Tilda stopped running the brush through my hair for a moment, sulky disappointment crossing her features.
She pursed her lips and said, “Have you started on the next challenge? Last I heard, Ky and Sophie had already found all three of their items.”
“Oh, have they?” I still sounded calm, but my stomach clenched. All three? I’d yet to find even one. I couldn’t help it—the stressed, scrambled feelings I’d experienced during the first challenge came over me, stronger than before. I shouldn’t be sitting here, getting my hair done. Desperately, I glanced around the chamber, as though I could find gowns and accessories from the Fashion House collection lying about the room.
“Yes,” Tilda said, twisting my hair into a low bun. “And Alice has at least two.”
She held my hair in place with one hand and pulled hairpins out of her pocket with the other. The morning light rippled off her black taffeta skirts, gleaming across the fabric likemoonbeams across a nighttime sky. I stared at the effect in the vanity mirror, tilting my head to the side. A thought slowly developed in my mind.
