Page 96 of A Dress for the Wicked
Yesterday, this newspaper confirmed the rumors. Select press members, including the Avon-upon-Kynt Times, previewed the gowns at a small fashion debut held after the Parliament Exhibition. Of remarkable note is that the two contestants are Emmaline Watkins, country talent from the north, and Sophie Sterling, the last remaining member of the eccentric Sterling family.
After years of Fashion House styles, the collection was a breath of fresh air, featuring haunting outfits that stayed with this reporter long after the final bows. Of further interest, the designers had their models walk, showcasing the pieces’ movements. It was an ingenious decision.
Tragically, a stage light caught the curtain on fire, ending the debut.
“On top of it all, it’s in theTimes,” Sophie said. “A year ago, the paper wouldn’t have dared write anything against theFashion House for fear of the Crown.”
“What about Mr. Taylor? Will he try to stop us since we won’t design for the Reformists Party?”
“He might. But everything is in upheaval right now. It works to our advantage. There’s even an opinion piece in the front of the paper. It talks about how fashion should be free from the government—both the CrownandParliament.”
I sat back in my chair. I’d never pictured this moment. I’d been so caught up with getting things done that I hadn’t realized what the other side of the hard work would be like, what it would feel like.
“I thought for sure that Tilda’s fire would ruin our chances.”
“Normally, it would have.” Sophie shrugged. “Things really are shifting, though. Ms. Walker wrote about it in the gossip column and concluded that the Fashion House had sent Tilda to stop us. Which isn’t true, of course, but it makes us seem sympathetic.”
“What will happen to Tilda?”
“Well, it seems like she’s aligned herself with the Reformists Party. She probably doesn’t realize she’s in the clutches of a madman.”
I supposed I should be happy—Tilda had tried to ruin me at every turn. But I kept thinking about my mother, how she’d been a maid as well. It wasn’t so easy, when the things one wanted were so far outside one’s grasp.
We sat quietly for a few moments, reading the papers. The restfulness was temporary, I knew. Soon, reality would descend on us, and we would have to work and plan and figure out a wayto stay ahead of Madame Jolène and Mr. Taylor. But—just for the morning—I would celebrate.
“I wanted to say thank you. For choosing me to join you in this crazy venture.” Sophie placed her cold hand on top of mine. The gesture was strangely awkward, considering her usual grace. She seemed to realize it and pulled her hand away. “I—” She stumbled over her words. “I think you are the first real friend I’ve ever had, Emmy. It’s terrifying.”
Sophie’s words filled my soul in a way nothing else could.
“And I have something to tell you,” she said.
“What is it?”
“I told you about Tristan’s proposal because I wanted to make you...” She stopped, struggling. She began again. “I pretend like he doesn’t mean anything to me, but that ring he gave me—I didn’t just keep it for fun.”
I pictured the thin band sitting on Sophie’s palm that day she’d showed it to me. She’d kept it. She hadn’t really said yes to his proposal. Hadn’t really said no. She’d held on to it... and, in some ways, him.
And maybe, even though I didn’t want to think it, he’d always have something with her, even if it wasn’t love. Perhaps that’s how it worked with such things. Promises of promises. They knit people together, just like simple rings of gold did.
“I don’t think I loved him the way you do. But when I was engaged to him, it was...” She seemed to be searching for a word. I waited, needing to hear it, even though I didn’t want to. “I feltsafefor the first time in a long while, and it was... comforting.” With nervous motions, she picked up the nearby saucerand poured milk into her tea, even though she already had. The milk plumed across its surface, turning the liquid white.
I remembered the way she’d interrupted our kiss in the dining room, how she’d pretended to be heading through to her room but had stayed, watching us. All along, she’d been trying to drive us apart and for what? She didn’t want him back.
And yet, she was apologizing. In her own way. She hadn’t saidI’m sorry, but she wasn’t the sort of girl who ever would. Simply stating the truth was a lot for her.
“I understand,” I said, and the grimness that created lines around her mouth and furrows across her brow dissipated. With a light touch, she picked up her milky tea and took a sip. I let us move on. “Can you believe that Madame Jolène was at the debut?”
“I thought I saw her there.” She jumped on to the change of topic.
“I spoke with her.”
“What did she say?”
“She said...” How could I describe our conversation? How she’d been threatening yet sad and vulnerable at the same time? “She said our collection was good.”
“I’m surprised she could bring herself to admit it.”
“I don’t know. I think, above everything else, she loves beauty.”
I stared down at the newspaper. In a few days it would reach Shy, and my mother would read it. She would know, then, that we’d succeeded. And she would know that I wasn’t coming back anytime soon.
The thought dimmed my elation. The second we turned any profit, I would send it back to her. And, when I could, I would go see her. Getting our fashion house started was important, but certain things—certain people—were more important.
I poured myself a cup of tea and put my fingers over the mouth of the cup, letting its steam warm my hands.
“We have to figure out our next steps,” I said. “We’ll need to make some more gowns and start taking appointments. And we need to come up with a press plan. The more we’re written up in the papers, the better.”
We started to talk about our new pieces, crafting gowns in the air. Their shapes and details rose in my mind and winged upward like birds, birds whose feathers were made of blue-violet silk and twisting chiffon ribbons. My heart soared with them, borne on the knowledge that, for better or for worse, my future was no longer bound by where I’d come from, but rather, what I would create for myself—stitch by stitch.
