She stopped but didn’t turn toward me, as though she might continue walking away at any moment. One of her little dogs (Apollo, as distinguished by his leather neck ruffle) came padding into the room and, upon seeing her, hurried over to sit at her feet.
“Yes?”
“Francesco just told me I have additional Fashion House duties.” I spoke slowly so my voice wouldn’t waver. “I just wanted to make sure I will still have ample time for the competition—”
“Emmaline,” Madame Jolène said, finally turning around to face me with serpentine grace. “You were brought here for a specific reason. Your first and foremost obligations are appearances and interviews.”
I took a quick breath. I knew I’d been brought to the competition to improve the Fashion House’s image. But I hadn’t anticipated that I’d be sent out and about, or that I wouldn’t have the same time to compete as everyone else.
“I just want to make sure it doesn’t compromise my place in the Fashion House Interview. I know my first coat was basic, but I promise I can design so much better—”
At the worddesign, Madame Jolène let out one of her short, imperious laughs.
“Dear Emmaline,” she said, “you forget your place here. Being a designer requires many skills beyond talent with a needle or sketchpad. Skills you neither understand nor possess—and certainly cannot attain in one season. Do good work, and whenyou are back home, you will be the better for it.”
Back home?
When I was little, I loved knitting together a few stitches of yarn and then pulling them so the fibrous strands came apart in a single instance. I marveled at how, with just one tug, something that was the start of a scarf or sock could be just a string of yarn once again.
With those two words,back home, I was back in Shy. Only, things were different, warped. I wasn’t the little girl pulling apart the scarf. I was the yarn, suddenly becoming nothing in one second.
Had she decided I wouldn’t get one of the designer positions? Already? No, my navy coat hadn’t been very good. But I’d been confused. Lost. I knew I could do so much better, if she just gave me the chance.
“Why?”
The word came out louder than I expected. Beside me, Francesco gave a wordless murmur, and Apollo cocked his head, looking from me to Madame Jolène. The question didn’t quite make sense in the context of our conversation, but she understood. The perpetually tense muscles in her face eased slightly and she tilted her head to the side, as though I were an exotic creature she had never seen before.
“‘Why?’ is a good question. I ask it quite a bit myself. For example, why can’t I run my Fashion House the way I desire, without the interference from some young, upstart members of Parliament? I’ve worked to create an empire, and yet I’m not the ruler of it. So why, Emmaline, is a very good question. Theproblem is that there are few answers to the whys.”
There was nothing harsh in her tone, but her calm voice and the sweet expression didn’t fool me. She loathed me. The realization hit me as clear as lightning across a blue sky in Shy. Maybe not me personally. But what I represented: her limitations. We stood there, staring at each other for a long moment, my blood throbbing in my ears.
I took another quick breath and then a slower one.
“Please,” I said. “Give me a chance to prove I belong here.”
Slowly, she reached up one hand to touch the measuring tape around her neck. She didn’t play or fidget with it like a normal person might. She simply placed her fingers over it, her gray eyes keen and sharp. Then she said, “Of course. When it comes to picking the design positions, I choose on talent alone, as shown throughout the competition. If you are the best choice, you will be selected.”
She turned away with such force that her skirts swept out over my shoes, and she glided toward the staircase. Apollo followed her. She paused right before the steps to gracefully collect him into her arms, her posture still somehow perfect. Then the two of them disappeared up the stairs.
I looked at Francesco.
“She doesn’t think I’ll be one of them, does she?” I asked. “She thinks I’ll be so busy with these events that I won’t learn enough or even have time to showcase my skills.”
Francesco opened his mouth and then shut it. Finally, he said, “Madame Jolène will always do what is best for the Fashion House. Don’t give up.” He gave my arm a little pat, but eventhough he was trying to be reassuring, I saw his eyes. There wasn’t any hope in them. Only sympathy.
He didn’t think I had a chance, and neither did Madame Jolène.
Two hours later, I sat in the front row of a small audience, practically drowning in pink ruffles and semiprecious gemstone necklaces. The dress had a flowery print and high neck. I imagined it was Madame Jolène’s take on what a country girl might wear to a party. It was effective. Nearly everyone who saw me glanced from my face to my dress and then turned to whisper to each other about the “new country contestant.” Madame Jolène had wanted me to stand out, and she’d done a good job.
But while the dress was an elaborate concoction of frills and lace, she hadn’t bothered to make sure it was wearable. The whole thing itched, and the sensation, combined with the dread in my stomach and knots in my neck, nearly drove me mad.
“This library signifies the commitment of the Reformists and Classicists to work together,” a man droned on from his spot behind a podium. No one had told me what exactly the event was, but it seemed to be a dedication for a new library wing. I’d been sent alone. Francesco had hired a hack that had picked me up behind the Fashion House, the same place I’d first entered it, and whisked me the short distance from the Fashion House to this library.
If I hadn’t been so frustrated, the trip would have been exciting. After being inside for so long, I was finally out and about in the Quarter District, the wealthiest commerce borough ofAvon-upon-Kynt. We’d driven along the River Tyne, which threaded its way down the center of the city. As we’d passed auction houses, restaurants, and galleries, my eyes searched the different windows—not to look at the wares, as gleaming and glistening as those were—but to see which Fashion House Interview contestants were favored. I saw most of our names displayed on signs, but Sophie’s showed up the most, often encircled in black roses.
I wasn’t sure whether I would see mine, but, as we’d turned past a small teashop, there it was. A sign just for me. It read:Wentworth & Co. Tea Salon Supports Emmaline Watkins, the Fashion House Interview.
“And now, Parliament Member Richard Davies will share some thoughts,” the man up front announced, and everyone applauded as the next speaker came up.
