For once, her terrifyingly commanding presence worked in my favor. I took the opportunity to sidle into the room and slip up to the nearest cutting table, next to Sophie. I struggled to gather myself, so it would seem as though I’d been there all along. It was a silly hope, when there were only six of us. But I desperately clung to it as beads of sweat rolled down my back.
The silence in the room continued, and I cautiously glanced up. The first thing I saw was Madame Jolène’s gray eyes, leveled straight at me. I cringed, ready for her to berate me or even tell me to leave. But when she spoke, it wasn’t to me. It was to everyone else.
“As I was saying, you will have the rest of today and tomorrow morning for the challenge.” It didn’t matter that she hadn’t outright scolded me. In fact, I might have preferred it to the dismissive derision that flitted across her face and then was gone. I stared down at my heels. I didn’t dare look at the reporter now. Madame Jolène continued.
“You will sketch your designs in your chambers and then Francesco will escort you down to the Fabric Floor, where you will select your materials and bring them back here for the sewing portion. You will present your finished pieces at noon tomorrow. We will review your work and give feedback at that time.” There was another dramatic pause, and I looked up just in time to see her extend a hand upward. “You may begin”—she paused, and everyone leaned forward in one collective surge of excitement—“now.”
As though released from Madame Jolène’s hold, the room burst into motion and sound. The reporters rushed forward.Most of them hurried up to Madame Jolène, asking her questions. Her design staff formed a barrier around her, and they moved like one body toward the door. Madame Jolène’s face was completely calm, as though she was alone in the room and not surrounded by a throng of reporters shouting questions at her. One or two approached Sophie and Ky.
The rest came up to me.
“Are you the contestant from the North?” a reporter demanded.
“What is your design aesthetic? Is it”—another one, this one in black-and-gray striped trousers, looked me up and down—“pink?”
“What do you think about the Reformists Party demanding your inclusion in the Fashion House Interview?” a particularly loud-voiced reporter shouted over the others.
“I...” Everywhere I turned, their bodies pressed up against me, their eyes hungry for my words. “I need to get by—”
I struggled to break through their circle, but they seemed to grow in strength, jostling me this way and that. Suddenly, a familiar face joined them. One with blue eyes, blond hair, and a bruised lip.
“Is it true that Madame Jolène will only be using yellow in the upcoming fall collection?” he yelled, his voice carrying over the din.
“Yellow?” the loud-voiced reporter shouted. “For fall?”
He darted away, yelling, “Madame Jolène! Wait! Just one comment.”
The other reporters followed him like bloodhounds on ascent. All of them except the blond reporter. He stood in front of me, arms folded across his chest, a lopsided smile on his bruised lips.
“Thank you,” I said self-consciously, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
“Anytime,” he replied. “But you’d better get going. The challenge has already begun!”
“You’re right!” I was the only contestant still in the room. Frazzled, I gathered up my skirts. “I need to hurry.”
“Good luck,” he said. Skirts still gathered, I paused for one second longer. Light from the high windows fell across his face, turning his hair into an even lighter blond and softening the blue from his eyes so that they were as clear as water.
“I still don’t know your name,” I said.
The lopsided grin on his lips grew and evened out so it was one full smile. But just as he opened his mouth to reply, Francesco called to me from across the room.
“Emmaline! No time to chat, darling. This is a competition, not an ice cream social.” He motioned for me to go, and I obeyed.
Ky, Alice, Kitty, and Cordelia were already on the staircase by the time I crossed the lobby floor. They hurried, their steps somehow loud, even though the stairs were covered in plush carpet. I rushed after them and managed to catch up to Ky.
“Ky,” I said. “What are we supposed to design for the challenge?”
For a second, she paused. Like last night, her style was all clash and contrast yet somehow worked. Her green gown hada fleur-de-lis print, and her gold heels had actual nails driven through the leather.
“It’s a—” She suddenly cut herself off, a shrewd sharpness coming to her face. “Maybe you should go ask Madame Jolène.”
“What? Just tell me what it is.”
“You really should ask Madame Jolène. I wouldn’t want to tell you the wrong thing.” She gave me a fake, apologetic smile, as though there really was nothing she could do.
She moved past me, leaving me alone on the stair. I took a breath, trying to steady myself and calm down. This was a competition. No one was going to help me. Still, my face burned hot with frustration.
“It’s a coat,” someone said behind me. I turned, the scent of violet and witch hazel filling my nose. Sophie, her hair wrapped up into a knot at the top of her head, stood at the bottom of the stairs. “We have to design a fall coat. The only requirement is that we incorporate feathers.”
