Page 66 of A Dress for the Wicked
“She did?” Cynthia sounded awed, as though that fact alone was much more impressive than the gown I’d described, or the sketches I’d shown her.
“Yes, she did,” Sophie said. “Lady Townsley wore it to the Ladies’ Annual Charity Ball, and there was a whole spread of it in the society pages.”
Despite the tenseness of the moment, I was distracted. I’d avoided the latest society pages—I hadn’t wanted to see my dress sketched out under the Fashion House label. Once a gown was featured in the society pages, there really was no way to remake it, and I hadn’t wanted to face that reality. But now I knew who’d worn it, and I was glad I knew. Sophie might not realize it, but she’d given me something I would carry with me. I hadn’t expected Sophie to care, but she’d remembered that the brocade was originally mine.
“A whole spread?” Cynthia sounded awed.
“A whole spread,” Sophie repeated.
“Is that true?” Cynthia looked at me for confirmation. I nodded, swallowing down my bitterness, measuring it against the hope that it could convince her to trust us.
Cynthia fell silent and we waited. Then she said, “Is anything required from me?”
“We will need forty percent up front,” I said, trying to maintain my calm. She was close to sayingyes, so very close. “That will cover the costs of materials, and you can pay the rest upon receipt of the gown.”
“Payment,” Cynthia repeated. Money matters were always handled delicately at the Fashion House. The customers had private bills, and two secretaries handled the financial aspect of orders. No one discussed money during appointments, because it was much too uncouth. Cynthia’s face pinched with distaste but she said simply, “Very well. Contact my house manager regarding the money. She will see to the details.”
“Thank you. Thank you very much,” I said. Cynthia extended her arm toward me.
Our first client.I didn’t realize it until her fingers closed around mine and we shook. For the briefest second, pure, untainted excitement ran through me. There was a very long way to go, and many things could go wrong, but for the time being, I let myself feel nothing but bliss.
We left Cynthia in the gazebo and returned to the gala, making it inside just as the party reached fever pitch. The air was thick with the sweet scent of champagne as guests danced inuneven circles, their arms raised. Bursts of laughter and loud conversations filled the room, competing with the music. The cacophonous roar thundered through me, but it didn’t disorient me like before. Instead, it felt like everyone was celebrating alongside us.
I snatched two flutes of champagne off a maid’s tray and handed one to Sophie. Wordlessly, we clinked glasses. I drank, letting the woozy powers of the champagne overcome my senses. A servant appeared to hand us two more and take away our emptied flutes.
“Emmaline!” Francesco came rushing toward us. “Where have you been? You need to get backstage. The introductions are about to begin.”
“I’m coming.” My tongue was numbed by the champagne and I giggled. With atsk, Francesco took the glass out of my grasp. I thought he was going to set it aside, but instead, he drained the very last few sips. Then he took my hand and led me to the opposite end of the room, grumbling about Fashion House Interview contestants and their champagne consumption, even as he plucked yet another flute off a nearby tray and drank it.
The stage was much larger up close. Its curtains seemed to reach the ceiling, and the backdrop of the stage—the intricate, floral-festoonedFHinsignia set against a light-gold background—was about twelve feet tall. We rounded the side of it, and Francesco pointed to a small set of stairs.
“When you hear your name, walk up those stairs. I’ll introduce you. Just smile and wave and then move to the back. Untilthen, make sure you’re out of sight behind the stage.”
“I understand.” I glanced around, wondering if a maid with another tray of champagne glasses might be nearby. No such luck.
Francesco hurried away. I made my way to the back of the stage, stepping around the supports propping up the backdrop. Then I saw her. Madame Jolène, standing between two humongous beams. Awkwardly, I came to a stop.
She was on a small platform with gears attached to the sides, the sort that could lift a performer onto a stage for a grand entrance. All the fuzziness from the champagne evaporated. Madame Jolène was one of the few people who could sober one up with her presence alone.
Her huge skirt was laid out perfectly around her. In the dim backstage light, the embroidery stood out even more against the dark fabric, giving it a stark appearance. I’d never seen her alone before, without so much as a tiny dog at her feet. Her typical aura of haughtiness was gone, replaced by a quiet stillness. With her hands down at her sides and her eyes closed, she took a long, slow breath in through her parted lips and then exhaled.
I stepped back, hidden by one of the beams. Her quiet was mesmerizing, intoxicating. Her posture was all strength—her back perfectly straight, as always—but her face was completely relaxed, open. I stared, unable to look away.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Startled, I realized Francesco was on the stage. I couldn’t see him, but his theatrical timbre rang out across the atrium. Immediately, the musicians stopped playing, and I heard the rustle of gowns and footsteps as everyonedrew toward the stage en masse. “It’s been quite the evening, but it’s time to direct our attention to the one thing that draws us together: the Fashion House. In Britannia Secunda, we stand alone in the world. We are fed not by crops, but by beauty.” I smiled a little. Francesco’s speech was a tad exaggerated, but it captured what it meant to be from Britannia Secunda. “Our times are difficult, and I hope we remember what the Fashion House means to us all, whether we are rich or poor. So, with that in mind, it is my pleasure to introduce Emmaline Watkins, our contestant from the country. She represents the Fashion House’s commitment to broadening its horizons and working with the Reformists Party.”
I picked up my skirts and carefully stepped onto the stairs. My heels wobbled on the thin wooden steps. There was no handrail, and I focused hard, breathing a sigh of relief when I got to the top in one piece. Francesco gestured to me, and I moved out onto the platform. A sea of people stretched out in front of me. My limbs moved slowly, jerkily, like a poorly made marionette, and my mouth was as parched as Shy during the height of summertime. Where was I supposed to look? Hundreds of people stared at me and I tried not to shift awkwardly. Most of the faces were curious, peering at me as though I were a strange specimen. And to them, the wealthiest people in our country, I most likely was. A few of them smiled, but not in a kind or gracious way. Their lips twisted maliciously, and they whispered to each other behind gloved hands and fans, laughing at the girl from the country up on the Fashion House stage.
“I’ve personally enjoyed having Emmaline among our newseason’s contestants.” Francesco smiled warmly at me, and I weakly tried to smile back. I’d been so consumed with my scheme that I hadn’t thought much about whether it was the right or wrong thing to do. Francesco had always been kind to me—and turning against Madame Jolène meant turning against him as well.
Francesco motioned for me to step aside, his face flushed with excitement.
“And now, the guest of honor, Madame Jolène Marchion!”
The whole stage vibrated, and the sounds of gears turning and grinding rose from underneath the stage. A small door opened in the floor, and Madame Jolène was lifted through it. Gasps erupted around the room and blended into a singular sound of awe. With effortless ease, she took one step forward to stand in the center of the stage.
“It is such a pleasure to see each of you here,” Madame Jolène said, facing the guests. Normally her face was frozen, but tonight, she wasalive, her eyes sparkling and her cheeks glowing with a rosiness I had never seen before. All the quiet from before was channeled into a magnetic energy. She raised her hands to the crowd, perhaps in offering or entreaty. Everyone fell silent, waiting beneath her outstretched arms. For the first time, I noticed a line of embroidery under the sleeve of each arm, running all the way to the cuffed wrists. It had been hidden before, a detail that only revealed itself with movement.
“I thank you for indulging my artistic fancies,” Madame Jolène said, “and for journeying with me. I find, to my great surprise, that each collection is a maze with one path. I amalways lost until I end up in the same place.”
