“I’m sorry,” I murmured, subtly trying to pull my skirts down to hide my satin flats.
“Madame Jolène,” Lady Vienna broke in, “why is this dress too tight? This is the most important day in Ellen’s life. Everyone will be looking at her!Everyone!I can’t have her looking like a—”
“What she is trying to say—” Lady Ellen interrupted. She had to stop to catch her breath midway through her sentence, one hand pressed to her confined midriff. “Is that I cannot... look like... a... fat pig in a white... dress. This is my day, and I will not look like a pig!” Drops of sweat flung off her face, spraying my cheeks. I didn’t dare wipe the moisture away, certain any motion would draw Madame Jolène’s attention and disapproval.
“If you did not look good in one of my gowns,” MadameJolène said, “I would not let you wear one.” I expected her to leave on that cutting comment, but instead she said to me, “When you are finished with Lady Ellen, report to the lobby.”
“The lobby?” I asked. Madame Jolène had already scolded me—what else could she want?
“Yes. Alice has been instructed to finish your appointments.”
Without another word, she turned and continued down the hallway, swooping into the other fitting rooms to the delight of the customers and stress of the other contestants. It was her modus operandi. She came down to the fitting rooms several times a day, even though she had her own more prestigious customers. She reminded me of my mother, fully invested in her business and involved in every aspect. But while my mother lived by routine, Madame Jolène did her rounds at random times, so I never knew when she would appear to drop a scathing comment.
As soon as I finished the appointment, I practically ran to the lobby. Nothing, not even Alice’s pouty expression at having to take over my final fittings, could distract me from wondering what awaited me.
The lobby was empty except for Francesco. He faced one of the mirrored panels, carefully redoing the knot on his crushed-velvet bow tie.
“Aren’t you a sweaty mess?” he said, seeing my reflection in the mirror behind him. I almost smiled. Only Francesco could say something insulting and make it sound affectionate.
“Is Madame Jolène here?” I came to stand next to him. “She pulled me out of my fittings.”
“Yes, she did,” he said, concentrating on the bow tie. “You need to change.”
“Change?” I blinked at him and glanced down at my simple pink consulting dress. “But I still have other appointments.”
“Those have been reassigned. Today you begin your other Fashion House duties.”
“What?” Aside from the Fashion House Interview and working with clients, there weren’t any other duties. And I didn’t want there to be. As hard as my time at the Fashion House had been so far—I’d fretted I’d fallen irrevocably behind in the competition—I could feel myself sinking into its rhythm of creativity and beauty.
“Yes. You didn’t have any yet because we were finalizing your press wardrobe.”
“Don’t I already have a Fashion House wardrobe?” I thought about those dresses hanging upstairs in my chamber in their nauseating row of pink.
“Oh, those dull things? Those are just your basic outfits,” Francesco said. “Every contestant receives at least five styles upon arriving here. But you get more. You will need a new dress and accessories every time you appear publicly. We aren’t outfit repeaters, darling, and every appearance is a fashion opportunity!”
“Appear publicly?” Instantly, the knots of tension doubled in my neck. I frowned, and Francesco, seeing my expression in the mirror, stopped fussing with his bow tie to turn around.
“Why, yes. You are here for a reason, Emmaline. The Reformists Party wants to see the Fashion House making changes, andyou are one of those changes. Starting today, you’ll be attending a variety of political and social events. You won’t have to say anything, just look pretty and a little... provincial, if you can. And, later this week, you’ll have some interviews—we’ll give you instructions on those.”
Cold fingers of dread wrapped around my heart. Events. Looking pretty.Not designing.How on earth would I have time to focus on the competition if I was away?
“You should be excited. Madame Jolène herself oversaw your new looks. They are fabulous. You’ll adore the handmade rosette accents. The dresses are pink, of course, but each one is stunning.” He said the wordpinkquickly, as though he knew I hated it.
“Francesco,” I said, trying to sound calm, “will I still meet with my customers?”
“What customers?” Francesco blinked at me. “You’ve had nothing but final fittings. But don’t worry, I’ll still schedule you as many as possible.”
“Will I have enough time for the next challenges?”
A long pause stretched out between us, and I waited, a metallic taste in my mouth.
“I’m not sure,” he said, the showy drama gone from his voice. He spoke simply, gently.
“Is there a problem here?” Madame Jolène entered from the fitting-room hallway. Her spectacles sat high on her head like a delicate headpiece, and her measuring tape still hung around her neck. She kept moving toward her private staircase, as though she had no intention of stopping to hear our responses.
“No, of course not—” Francesco quickly started to say.
But I said, “Madame Jolène, may I have a word?”
