Page 67 of A Dress for the Wicked
A shiver ran over my arms and legs. Not the terrifying shiver that Mr. Taylor elicited. This was completely different. This was warm and delicious. I wanted it to last forever.
Madame Jolène dropped her hands to her sides and lowered her voice to a near whisper. Everyone strained to hear.
“I am excited to announce the theme for my fall collection.”
The crowd surged forward in a soundless charge, desperate to hear but trying to stay quiet. I was swept away into their eagerness, listening with every bit of my attention, the magic of the moment trilling through me.
“It is”—Madame Jolène paused, her hands clasped in front of her—“Papillion Nue.”
Applause erupted and echoed off the atrium’s glass dome. The audience glanced at each other, nodding in approval and exclaiming in eagerness.
I knew from Madame Jolène’s lyrical pronunciation thatpapillion nuewas French.
“Francesco!” I shouted over the noise. He was clapping with all his might and didn’t hear me. “Francesco! What doespapillion nuemean?”
“Naked butterfly,” he said over the noise.
I rested back onto my heels.Naked butterfly. I imagined gowns embroidered with the delicate membranes of a butterfly’s wings and fabrics in both the bold and muted colors of monarchs and chrysalises. I imagined a skirt disintegrating into small butterflies and the raw, skeletal outline of a butterfly on a bodice. The namepapillion nueitself provided the story. Itwas easy to fill it in with images.
As everyone cheered, Madame Jolène stood on the stage, her hands still raised and her chest dramatically rising and falling. I remembered her eyeglasses, the ones shaped like a butterfly’s wings. She must have been thinking about the collection for the whole past year.
“Papillion Nue,”Madame Jolène repeated. Instantly, the crowd quieted, only this time it was an agitated, ripe silence, as though they might break into applause at any moment. “A butterfly is often a symbol of spring. However, I want to explore the vulnerable, weaker side of these creatures. So, I have incorporated the element of nakedness and put the butterflies’ context in fall.”
“Inspirational,” Francesco said as he stepped forward. “I know I speak for us all when I say we cannot wait.”
I kept clapping with everyone else, but suddenly the cold truth hit me. I wasn’t part of this. I couldn’t get excited about the collection or fantasize about helping to create it. This belonged to the other contestants—to Madame Jolène and the rest of Britannia Secunda. I was outside of it, and for once, it wasn’t anyone else who was trying to keep me out.
I’d done that all on my own.
The Fashion House Interview competitors were the last to leave the gala. By the time the hacks came for us, the guests had left. We collapsed into the chairs and benches along the outskirts of the ballroom, watching as the servants put the room to rights again. There were remnants of the party everywhere—emptiedchampagne flutes with lipstick marks set in the most surprising places, forgotten fans and dance cards strewn about, and half-eaten appetizers scattered across silver trays and napkins. I could almost recreate where the attendees had been and what they had been doing.
My throat was sore and my hands stung from clapping. After so many hours of wear, my dress had become an instrument of pain. Its boning dug into my ribs, and I struggled to breathe around its constriction. My head ached, but I didn’t know if it was from exhaustion or from the stress—and excitement—of the evening.
“Ladies, your hacks are here,” a servant called to us. We slowly stood up, wincing from our too-tight dresses and too-high heels, and made our way back to the main entry.
“Emmaline,” someone called to me from a side room. I turned, confused. Then I saw him.
“Tristan!”
He was standing in a small parlor right off the lobby. I hurried over to him, nearly tripping over my skirts. At the last moment, I slowed and stopped a few feet away. I’d already seen him outside, in the chaos of the protest, but I hadn’t taken in his appearance. His suit was obviously cheap yet classic, and his hair was parted to the side, though some of the strands flopped free onto his forehead.
“Were you here the whole time?” I asked, coming closer. “I didn’t see you at the gala.”
“I spent most of the evening covering the protest. Then I slipped in here so I could do a write-up on the new theme. Iarrived just in time to see you get presented.”
“You saw me up on the stage?”
“Yes.” He grasped my hands, pulling me farther into the parlor and, at the same time, nearer to him. Glancing around, he whispered, “Did you meet with Cynthia?”
“Yes,” I whispered back. “It went well.”
He nodded but kept holding my hands. We stood, facing each other, our hands bridging the space between us. I glanced from his face to our clasped fingers and then back to his face again. He quickly let go, mumbling, “Sorry.”
“Oh!” I said at the same time.It’s fine, I wanted to say.I like holding your hands.Nervously, I moved to tuck a strand of hair back from my face, but my hair, since it was so perfectly done, didn’t have any loose pieces. I lowered my arm.
“I’m glad it went well,” Tristan said, his voice clipped and formal. “I just—I wanted to make sure your plan was working.”
He couldn’t seem to keep his eyes on mine, and he shifted back and forth in front of me. I watched him, confused.
