Page 38 of A Dress for the Wicked
Slowly, I continued down the stairs, staring hard at each painting. At the second-to-last step, I came to a stop. The painting staring back at me featured the Moroccan ambassador’s wife in her red chiffon dress with the long train. The artist had caught her in motion, captured midstep. The chiffon floated ethereally around her, but her skirts were still huge, supported by an underskirt of thick red satin. Behind her, her twenty-foot train trailed through the air, following after her in a red streak. The dress was spectacular. I’d never questioned it or ever thought it should be changed, but now as I stared at it, revisions burst into my mind almost faster than I could process them.
I opened my sketchbook and lifted my pencil. Then I froze,pencil pressed to page. What was I doing? Revising a beloved Fashion House design? Could I make it better?ShouldI? The dress was iconic, a piece of Fashion House history. But... I was running out of time. And the changes that I wanted to make came naturally to my mind—I didn’t have to force them at all. I wasn’t trying to conform to the invisible Fashion House rules. I was listening to myself.
And at least I’ll be proud of this. Unlike the navy coat.
I drew in a long, steadying breath and started sketching. As I did, I lost myself to the beauty of the dress. In my mind, sights and feelings mixed. Bursts of red combined with the silky sensation of chiffon.
Carefully, I streamlined the silhouette, ridding it of the heavy satin skirt so that the chiffon fell against the body. I embellished it with gunmetal beading reminiscent of tarnished silverware. Nothing at the Fashion House was tarnished, but I always loved objects that showed a patina of age.
“Emmaline!”
Startled, I nearly dropped my pencil. Francesco stood above me on the stairs. “It’s been forty minutes. Ms. Walker is waiting.”
“Waiting?” I looked around, as though I could find a clock nearby. “I completely lost track of time.”
“I should say so. You aren’t successful enough yet to be demanding and have people wait for you. Though, to be fair, only Madame Jolène is on that tier. Someday, I hope to be as well. Now, come along, my dear.”
I shut my sketchbook and climbed the stairs towardFrancesco, trying to stay calm. I was out of time, and I only had two sketches: the maids’ uniform and the red chiffon gown. The now all-too-familiar feeling of panic rushed over me. What could I do? Sketch something out fast as I headed to the judging after the interview? Maybe I could do that. I could sketch and walk at the same time. Guiding myself with one hand on the banister as I moved upward, I looked over my shoulder into the lobby, desperately searching for anyone in a Fashion House gown. No one was down there. There was nothing to inspire another sketch.
I clenched my sketchbook and tried to ignore the sinking feeling in my belly. It was happening again. I was failing at the Fashion House Interview for the second time.
I was numb through the interview, my mind running rampant as I thought through my options. Vaguely, I heard the reporter ask me something.
“Yes,” I said automatically. Francesco cleared his throat loudly, and I blinked.
“Ms. Walker was asking you how you felt about the first challenge.”
“Oh! I’m sorry.” I focused on the bespectacled woman in the blue serge office dress. I hadn’t answered the question, but she wrote something down in her notebook. She was probably taking notes on how odd I was. “The first challenge... well, it was... I learned a lot.”
“I’m sure it was overwhelming for someone from the country,” Ms. Walker said. “When I heard you were included in theFashion House Interview, I wrote an op-ed about how it really isn’t fair. To you.”
“To me?”
“Indeed. You don’t have the background of the other girls.” Ms. Walker stared owlishly at me, her eyes magnified by her thick-framed glasses. They were terribly dated, the style popular a couple years ago. On top of that, they didn’t flatter her face shape. Even as I focused on her words, my mind fixed them for her. “It isn’t your fault, but you were set up for failure just to appease the Reformists Party. These artificial changes to the system don’t benefit anyone.”
“That certainly isn’t the case—” Francesco started to say.
“It’s true.” I interrupted Francesco. He tried to kick me discreetly with his cheetah-print slippers, but his motion was overly dramatic, and Ms. Walker rolled her eyes. “I don’t have the same background as the other girls, and because of my press duties, I don’t have the same time for the challenges or Fashion House fittings. I must admit, it has been difficult.”
“Keep going,” Ms. Walker said at the exact same time that Francesco said, “Goodness, Emmaline, stop.”
Just moments ago, my mind had been frazzled. Now, I was fully present, aware. Aware of Ms. Walker’s hungry eyes, waiting for a juicy comment. Aware of Francesco’s desperate attempts to shush me. And aware of my own heart, beating hard underneath my ridiculous dress.
“I may have been set up to fail, and I’m not like the other girls,” I said. “I don’t come from much. But I wouldn’t trade who I am or where I came from for all the wealth and status inthe world.” My mother’s face flashed before me. Yes, there were lines around her eyes and across her forehead. But there was something else. Not fire. Smoldering. A long-simmering power forged by a lifetime of hardship.
Everyone judged her by her mistakes and told her she couldn’t run a pub on her own. Despite them, she’d done it. Was doing it. “My whole life, nothing has been handed to me. I get it on my own. You say that I’m set up to fail—and maybe I am. But I will design, and if Madame Jolène doesn’t like it, I won’t stop. I’ll design another gown and then another. And another one after that.”
I stopped abruptly and the three of us sat in silence. Ms. Walker nodded, slowly at first, and then faster. I thought Francesco might scold me, but when I looked at him, he smiled back.
“Emmaline is strong,” he said softly. “I knew it from the moment I saw her outside that tent in Evert.” He straightened his fitted suit jacket. “Now, then. I think you have enough quotes, Ms. Walker. Emmaline needs to get to the judging.”
“I still have five minutes!” Ms. Walker protested.
“So sorry.” Francesco stood up, motioning for me to do so as well. “But this contestant is needed elsewhere.”
Outside the salon, I grabbed my sketchbook from a side table. Francesco had told me to leave it there during the interview, but now I clutched it to my chest.
“Thank you, Francesco,” I said.
