Page 77 of A Dress for the Wicked
“You are two stupid little girls who think you can start a new fashion line based on talent alone. Your line is nothing more than a pesky fly that will be squashed.”
“That’s not true,” I said. Telling her no, that she wasn’t right after all this time, was almost like being underwater—for amoment, everything was still, weightless, suspended. “You’re terrified of us. You’re terrified of what we can do.”
Madame Jolène laughed then. She laughed so hard that she tossed her head back, her lips peeling back to show her perfect teeth. My moment of conviction was gone. Instead of being held still underwater, I was tossed about by it, tumbling without stop, out of control. Both Sophie and I stood, watching her. Finally, her laughter subsided into small hiccups and then to nothing at all. She moved to stand near me and, for an alarming second, I thought she was going to hit me. Instead, she put her hands on both of my shoulders and pulled me close, so close that her lips were right by my ear. As she held me near, all I could see were the black buttons running up into her collar like dozens of eyes staring at me.
Madame Jolène lowered her voice to a whisper. “You, Emmaline,” she said, “are terrified of yourself.”
Her words struck me more than any blow could have. I raised a hand to my ear, right where her breath had warmed it. Madame Jolène smiled, satisfied, and then took a few steps back so she could see us both.
“Get. Out.”
As though through a fog, I saw Sophie turn and walk toward the door. I followed her, dumbly.
I had come so far. What could I do now?
Sophie opened the door, and for the first time since Cynthia had entered the room, our eyes met. She touched my arm. I didn’t know if she was trying to comfort me or herself.
We stepped onto the landing outside Madame Jolène’s chambers. Cynthia stood there, hands on her hips, chin raised so highI could see up her nose. As soon as we stepped out, she brushed by us, rushing to get back to Madame Jolène.
Then I heard Madame Jolène: “Leave here and never come back.”
The sound of Cynthia’s protestations cut through the air, but I barely heard them.
Francesco was waiting in our chamber, his head turned away as though he couldn’t stand the sight of us.
“You, Emmaline?” he whispered, and for the first time, crippling guilt washed over me. No matter how cruel Madame Jolène was, Francesco had always been kind to me.
Out of everyone, I wanted him to understand.
“I’m—” I started to speak, but he raised a hand, silencing me.
“Get your things. Both of you!” He stared up at the ceiling, sniffing. “You are only to take what you brought with you. Anything you’ve made or acquired here is Fashion House property.”
He left as we scrambled for our possessions.
“Do you have a place to go?” Sophie’s voice cracked as she opened her vanity drawer.
“I’ll have to get home somehow.”
I pulled my old carpetbag out from behind my wardrobe and unlatched it. Almost everything I had belonged to the Fashion House. I sank beside the satchel, staring into its depths.
From where I sat, I could see a bit of my charmeuse skirt poking out from underneath the bed.We had been so close.
“Sophie.” She gazed at me from where she stood by her vanity. “Sophie, we can still do it.” I pushed myself up and stumbled on my skirts, almost falling to my knees again. I barely caughtmyself, hands outstretched for balance.
“What do you mean?” she asked, her voice as weak as mine.
“Is there someplace we can go to finish the collection? Just until the debut? It’s our only hope. Otherwise...” I didn’t dare finish. Probably because it was too frightening to contemplate. But if we didn’t try, we would never design again.
“I...” She stopped, running her fingers agitatedly through her long black hair. Her movements were fast and sharp. “I can’t go back to Alexander’s manor. And we don’t have enough money left to get a flat.”
I took a breath, sucking air deep into my lungs so I sounded strong when I spoke. We couldn’t both be afraid.
“Do we have enough for tickets to and from Shy?”
“Yes.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder in a decisive swoop. “We do.”
Shy.Home. Ever since arriving at the Fashion House, I’d fought those two words. They symbolized defeat—a return to who I was before.
