Page 45 of A Dress for the Wicked
My finger pulsed with my heartbeat as I moved down the hallway. I fought to keep facing forward. Everything inside me wanted to turn back and behold my gown—mygown—one last time. Even though I’d barely had time to see it, I knew it intimately, from the godets sewn into the skirt to the fifteen jet-black buttons running down the back seam.
Behind me I heard Madame Jolène say, “Try walking in the gown. I’ll make sure the hem length is correct.” Her tone was the same as always: taut, professional, brisk.
I picked up my pace, rushing down the hallway, away from her and my gown. If I didn’t make myself leave, I knew I would march back up to Madame Jolène and say things that would get me thrown out immediately.
My heels were slowing my pace, so I took them off and discarded them in the middle of the carpet. It was a tremendous Fashion House violation to be barefoot, but I didn’t care. By the time I reached my fitting room, I was almost running, weaving in between customers mingling in the hall. I wasn’t sure where I was going—just that I needed to get away.
“Excuse me!” Madame Solange called out as I brushed by. I kept going up the hallway, moving faster and faster.
“Emmaline? Emmaline!” It was Kitty. I came to an abrupt stop, which was just as well, because I wasn’t even certain where I was heading. She was standing in her fitting room, refolding silk around a bolt.
“What on earth is the matter?” she asked. “Gracious! Where are your shoes? Your finger! Are you all right?” She motioned me into her fitting room and picked up a strip of cotton from her sewing case. “Here. Oh dear, you got blood on your sleeve.” Wrapping the cotton around my finger, she applied pressure to the puncture. “What’s wrong?”
“Madame Jolène—” I struggled to form a coherent thought.“She made my gown.”
“What do you mean?” Kitty asked, frowning.
“My sketch, the one she took at the audition in Evert. She had it made for a customer, and she didn’t even tell me!”
The creases in Kitty’s forehead eased, and she let out a hesitant laugh.
“You should be proud. It’s an honor to have your gown made by Madame Jolène. It happens all the time. The Fashion House is founded on the principles of collaborative design. But... maybe you just need a moment?” Kitty asked, patting my shoulder uncertainly.
I nearly retorted,No, I don’t need a moment, I need my gown back, but I caught myself and nodded, attempting to smile. It wouldn’t help anything to get mad at her.
“Let me get you a glass of water.” She left the fitting room.
I took a few gulps of air. Something wet and sticky oozed down my finger. It was bleeding again, Kitty’s impromptu bandage failing to stop it. I reached over to her sewing cabinet and opened the top drawer, searching for another strip of cloth.
A letter sat on top. I was about to move it away, but then I saw something that made my heart stop.
Slowly, I picked up the letter.
Kitten—
Your father and I have been following the Fashion House Interview rankings and it seems that you are consistently near the bottom. You know what we have sacrificed to put you in the competition. Please do not waste this opportunity to better our family, and do anything necessary—sabotage, even—to secure a better rank.
Regards,
Your Mother
Instantly, every interaction I’d had with Kitty rose in my mind, reframed in cruel clarity. Kitty helping me get ready for the interview. Kitty getting fabric and buttons for me. Kitty encouraging me when I was down. Before, the scenes had warmed me. Now they were cold sequences of manipulation.
She was kind, and I was so desperate for a friend that I had let her in, played right into her hands. I’d invited her into my chamber, confided in her, given her plenty of opportunities to sabotage me. I should’ve known. She was sweet. Too sweet. No one was that nice.
Not here, not in the city.
“Emmaline?” Kitty stood in the fitting-room doorway. Her eyes went straight to the letter in my hand.
“It was you. You told the maid not to wake me, and you destroyed my sketches. And the materials for the wedding gown. You intentionally got the wrong shade of silk and size of buttons.”
Quickly, Kitty pulled the curtain to her fitting room closed.She set down the glass of water, slowly, carefully.
“I know how this looks.” Her voice was matter-of-fact, its usual gentleness gone. “And yes, I haven’t been... completely honest with you.”
I stared down at the letter. My finger left a bloody imprint on its grainy surface. I fixated on its rigid outline, desperately trying to make sense of everything.
“I’m not here to win the Fashion House Interview apprenticeship. I would like to, but I’m a realist. I’m here for the connections.”
