“Really?” I blinked in surprise. Cool and aloof Sophie was the last person I expected help from. “Thank you. I really appreciate it. I asked Ky, and she wouldn’t tell me.”
Sophie proceeded up the steps, coming to stand next to me on the same narrow step, her black skirts brushing against mine in a swish of cool silk. I leaned back, unnerved by her closeness. Everything about her seemedmoreup close. Her hair seemed blacker and her skin seemed whiter. Even her perfume suddenly seemed stronger.
“I suppose she was trying to gain some sort of competitive edge,” she said. “It’s quite funny. Some girls are so easily threatened.”
She stared evenly at me, as though waiting for a response, but I didn’t know what to say. A soft half smile crossed her mouth and then was gone. My face blazed hot again. She found me amusing. Pitiable.
With that, she continued up the stairs, leaving me behind.
When we got to our chambers, Sophie picked up her leather sketchbook and took the chaise longue. Her skirts spread around her like a pool of black water. An identical leather sketchbook sat on my vanity. Three graphite pencils, their wood encased in gold leaf, were next to it.
I picked up the sketchbook and one of the pencils, and glanced around. At home, I sketched at our dining room table. Our table was old and its rigid edges sometimes distorted my lines. I wouldn’t have that problem here, where every surface was smooth and glossy.
I sat down at the vanity and flipped back the cover of the sketchbook.
A coat. A fall coat with feathers.
I closed my eyes, like I always did right before I sketched. Usually a dreamlike fog filled my mind, one full of colors and forms. But this time, my mind was a scattered mess. I opened my eyes. Sophie sketched quickly, her hand moving assuredly across the page. She looked like a real designer, like someone who knew exactly what she was doing. The sight of her confidence made my nerves grow even more.
Focus.
Coat. Feathers.
I took a breath, a deep one that filled my lungs with air andmade my chest expand. I let it out slowly and pressed my pencil tip to the page.
A slim coat.
There. That was a starting point. That was a silhouette.
Slowly, I outlined a fitted coat, one that would follow the lines of the body.
Should it be navy? Black?
Usually, I never had to ask myself these questions, because the answers always seemed to be there inside me, simply waiting to be discovered. Now I felt like I was designing outside of myself, that I was forcing myself through each step.
Nude.
I didn’t think the word so much as feel it.Yes.The coat would be nude wool and I’d cut out black leather pieces. I would sew the pieces onto the body of the coat so that, at first, it would seem like it was entirely black leather. Then, as the wearer moved, bits of the nude would show through.
I couldn’t help but smile. The mix of shiny leather with soft wool was completely me: functional yet fantastical, and articulated in the slimmest of silhouettes. I’d sew red feathers around the collar. They would stand straight up, creating a high neck. The wool would be in homage to Shy, along with red robins’ feathers.
I worked quickly, labeling which colors went where and the types of fabrics I’d use.
Our chamber door opened, and Tilda entered, holding a feather duster. She flitted about, dusting here and there. She gave Sophie a wide berth, but when she came near my vanity,she peered over my shoulder at my sketch.
“My,” she said. “That’s quite the look.”
Quite the look?
My fingers tightened involuntarily on my pencil, and I stared down at the sketch. Just moments ago, I’d thought it was strong. Creative. Me.
“You do realize you are designing for the Fashion House, don’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“The Fashion House silhouette is full. Traditional. Not all skimpy like this.” She jabbed her feather duster at my sketch. The duster emitted a gentle cloud of dust and I almost sneezed. “And nude? For the fall season?”
“Shouldn’t you be cleaning?” Sophie asked from her spot on the chaise longue. Her head was still bent over her drawing and she didn’t stop sketching. She spoke in the same commanding and impersonal tone that Madame Jolène used when addressing the maids. Tilda immediately stepped back, lowering her head.
