Page 46 of A Dress for the Wicked
“What?”
“After the competition concludes, I’m going to apply to the royal family as their in-palace seamstress. You don’t have to be a great designer—you just have to be good at mending, and I’m one of the strongest technical sewers here.”
“The in-palace seamstress...” I tried to clear my thoughts.
“Nothing would make my family more furious than if I was in the graces of the royal family and they weren’t. I’m sick of being controlled by them, but they won’t be able to reach me if I’m there.”
“This letter instructs you to sabotage the contestants.”
“I haven’t, though. Think about it, Emmaline. Even if I did sabotage someone, what would the point be? It wouldn’t make me win the challenges. No, my goal is to establish myself as a strong sewer and use that to gain a new life.”
She spoke with practiced ease. There was no sweetness in her tone or eyes—just calculating thoughtfulness. I watched her, feeling like she was transforming right in front of me andthat I was seeing the real Kitty for the first time.
Now that I thought about it, Kitty always turned in well-made clothes. And when she explained her work, she always emphasized its tailoring and fit. Since the royal family only wore Fashion House clothing, she’d be an ideal applicant for a palace seamstress because she’d participated in the Fashion House Interview.
All the pieces seemed to add up. The question was whether to believe the story they created.
“My family uses everyone.” Kitty pressed on. “Even me. At first, I thought I’d been accepted into the Fashion House Interview because of my skill. But my parents purchased my spot to elevate their status. I told them I was done with them, but they don’t care. They still try to use me, still send me those ridiculous hampers, still go around telling everyone how I’m going to win the whole thing. Little do they know that I’m going to elude their grasp entirely—using the scenario they put me in.”
“But—you are like them. You pretend to be sweet, and it’s an act.”
“I suppose you’re right. They want me to be competitive, so I’ve been overly nice and helpful to everyone, hoping they’ll hear about it and go mad with frustration.”
Slowly, deliberately, I folded the letter in half and put it in my pocket. For all I knew, this was a performance, too.
“I’m going to keep this, and if I get even the hint that you’re sabotaging anyone, I’m going to take it to Madame Jolène.” I could’ve turned it in right then and there, but maybe Kitty was telling the truth. If there was the slimmest possibility she was,I wanted to give her the chance to break free from her family. But I needed to be careful. “And from now on, I think it’s best if you stay away from me.”
I wasn’t prepared for the hurt that filled her eyes. It was swift and deep, a duplicate of my mother’s eyes when I told her I was leaving for the city. I steeled myself against it—I couldn’t trust her.
I left her there and went back up the hallway to where my shoes were sitting on the carpet, one upright and the other a few paces away on its side. I slipped them on and headed back toward the lobby and the stairs. I walked several yards before my feet started tingling, the pain from the heels renewed after being dulled all day long.
“You look... tired,” Sophie said as I entered our chamber. She watched me from her perch on the wide windowsill. I stopped in the doorway, kicking off my heels. I jerked myself out of my gown. I wanted to divest myself of everything that was the Fashion House and Madame Jolène. Luckily, it was my consulting gown, so I could get out of it without assistance.
“I am,” I said shortly, undoing the clasps running down the front of my corset and letting it fall to the ground so I was wearing only a slip. I was aimless for a few moments, my mind still half in the fitting room with Kitty and half in the hallway with Madame Jolène and my gown.
It was all so much.
Too much.
I forced myself into action. I unfolded the wedding gown silk and retrieved a measuring tape from my sewing case. As Idid, I noticed Sophie’s vanity had been moved yet again. “Will you stop moving things around? And what are you even doing here?”
My snappish tone got her attention, and she set down the recent issue ofLa Mode Illustréeshe held. She was immaculate in her slim, French-bustled skirt and high-necked blouse. The two pieces were made of a shiny black satin. The only sign she’d come from consultations was a pincushion tied around her wrist.
“I have to change things,” she said, giving a careless shrug. “Things that stay the same bore me. And Madame Jolène lets me take my breaks when I wish.”
I didn’t bother to reply. My hands held the silk and tape, but my mind was loose again. I wondered, for the first time, about the woman who had purchased my dress. How had she felt when she saw it and slipped it on? Occasionally we tried on Fashion House pieces to get a sense for their fit. I always loved the moment when a new gown was in place on my body—how it was completely separate from me yet encased me. There was always a bit of surprise.
Dresses were different once they were on a figure. Garments needed bodies to complete them, to incarnate them, and I always marveled at how they appeared one way on a hook and another on a woman. Did the owner of my dress feel transformed? Did she feel more or less like herself? I hated that I would never know.
“I need—” I started and stopped, cutting myself off because I didn’t really know how to finish the statement.
“What?”
“I don’t know. I’ve had an eventful day.”To say the least.I couldn’t tell her about Kitty. If she was trying to escape her parents, I wanted to protect her. But I could tell Sophie about my gown. “Madame Jolène took my design and had it made for a client. I know I shouldn’t be surprised. The Fashion House owns our designs. But I never anticipated how it’d feel to see it made.”
Sophie didn’t seem startled. Instead, she slowly set the magazine down on the window ledge and swung her legs over the windowsill so she was facing me, her black skirts spilling down onto the floor like silken ink. Her full attention took me aback. I expected a sardonic comment or an empty platitude. After all, that was Sophie: always fluctuating between sarcasm and vague detachment.
“What happened?”
