Page 78 of A Dress for the Wicked
And, more terrifying, a return to who I would have to be again.
A waitress in a pub, in a place that hated the thing I loved most. The whole time I’d been at the Fashion House, going back had meant becoming a cautionary tale, a repeat of my mother: a girl who went to the city and returned humiliated.
No.
I would go back. But on my own terms. My mother’s story wasn’t mine—and going home didn’t have to be defeat. Not just yet.
“Will your mother let us finish everything there?” Sophieasked. “Wasn’t she upset that you came here?”
“Yes. She was.” I still hadn’t heard from her. Not a word. Her silence was stronger than any letter might be. “But we don’t have any other choice.”
She would understand. I would explain things to her. I would show her not so much in words but in garments; the garments spun out of my mind and into sheer skirts, leather bustiers, pleated gowns. My designs. When she saw them, she would have to understand.
“We need to take our collection.”
I lay down on the marble by the bed, reaching underneath it and yanking out bolts of fabric and half-finished dresses. My movements seemed to spur Sophie to action, and she ran to her bed, sprawling forward on her stomach to pull pieces out.
I piled our collection up, as though it was nothing more than dirty laundry, and grabbed my carpetbag. I struggled to force the garments into it. It seemed like the more I stuffed, the more they poured out over the floor.
Sophie grabbed one of the several pillows piled in a soft mountain on her bed. She pulled the pillow out and tossed it aside, clutching the gold-tasseled pillowcase, and began stuffing our collection into it.
“What is going on here?” Francesco shouted from the doorway, his charcoal-darkened eyebrows raised high on his forehead and one finger pointed threateningly at us. “You are not to takeanythingthat doesn’t belong to you!”
I stopped, clasping the pillowcase and my carpetbag. Sophieslowed, one gown draped over her shoulder and two held in her hands.
“Drop it,” Francesco commanded. “Drop all of it right now.”
Looking over at Sophie, I said,“Run!”
Sophie, holding two pillowcases full of our gowns, bolted toward the door. I ran after her, straight toward Francesco. He grabbed at me and his hand nearly closed around my carpetbag. I ducked past him at just the last moment.
We ran down the stairs, our feet slipping on the rug, the pillowcases and carpetbag bouncing against our sides and legs. We burst into the Fashion House lobby. Customers and a few of the candidates wheeled around to stare at us in shock. Kitty called out, “Emmaline!”
We charged through the front doors, leaving them swinging behind us, and raced into the courtyard, gravel spitting out from beneath our heels.
Sophie and I didn’t stop running for two blocks. Then we collapsed against a brick wall, our chests heaving. Sweat poured down my forehead, gluing my hair to the back of my neck. My feet screamed from running in heels, and I gasped for air, bent at the waist, limply clutching the carpetbag. Still, we couldn’t rest.
“We need to keep going,” I said. “Come on.”
We ran through the side alleys that threaded between the boutiques. As we rushed by maids and shop girls, they flattened against the walls to let us by, probably terrified we were thieves.
Finally, the clean, well-cobbled streets started to give way to the unpaved roads of the Republic District, and we sloweddown to a brisk clip. I limped in my heels until we both came to a stop, panting.
“We need to call a hack,” I said. “We have to get to the train station.”
“I know,” Sophie replied. “It should be safe now. None of the drivers in the Republic District will care who we are.”
As we waved to the hacks passing by, I caught my reflection in a gritty windowpane. I was wearing a stylish gown from the Fashion House, my hair was mussed, and I had a carpetbag and two gold-tasseled pillowcases at my feet.
I let out a frantic, hysterical-sounding laugh. The sound was snatched away by the bustling street and gusting wind, but it didn’t matter. I’d never felt like such a disaster in all my life.
Part III
Chapter Eighteen
WE DIDN’T SAY MUCH ONthe train ride. Probably because we both knew that if we did, we’d have to acknowledge what was happening to us. That we’d been kicked out of the most powerful fashion house in the world. That our chances for becoming designers were next to nothing. That if we could, we might just go back and do everything differently. It was easier to catch up on our sleep than to talk about—face—our uncertain futures.
I was relieved once we arrived in Evert. I wouldn’t have to sit still with my anxious thoughts any longer. We stepped off the train, pillowcases in hand. Sophie peered about.
