I couldn’t muster the will or care to clap. As I sat here, the contestants back at the Fashion House would be starting their fourth appointments of the day. They would be taking measurements, making quick sketches, cajoling customers to try a new color or new style. More importantly, they would be showing Madame Jolène that they could adapt to the Fashion House ways, that they would be a good fit for the apprenticeships. And while they were making progress in the challenge, I was here, sitting in a chair.
Parliament Member Richard Davies, a rotund man with a receding hairline, took his place at the podium. Everything he said sounded the same as the man before. He referencedprogressat least ten times andthe vision of the Reformists Partyapproximately eight times. He cleared his throat in a most obnoxious way twice, and then finally concluded, saying, “The Parliament Wives’ Association has thoughtfully provided us with some refreshments. Let us enjoy.”
I jumped to my feet, trying to adjust my dress so it didn’t rub against my neck and underarms quite so much. When my movements didn’t help, I sighed and surrendered to the gown’s itchy embrace and joined the line of people at the food table.
Morosely, I picked up a small plate with an even smaller scone on it. A server offered me two different options for wine and, uncertain, I pointed to one of the bottles. I moved to the side as the people behind me pressed in, reaching for refreshments before falling into small, conversational groups. I pretended to concentrate on eating the scone and sipping at the bitter wine.
“My dear!” I turned to see a portly, smiling woman addressing me. She’d been introduced at the very beginning as the head of the Parliament Wives’ Association and the sponsor for the event. Lady Weber, I believed her name was. “It’s a pleasure to have a Fashion House Interview candidate here. We’ve been so curious to see Madame Jolène’s new contestant—and aren’t you darling!”
I smiled, awkwardly brushing scone crumbs from my mouth.
“Someone requested to meet you. Come, come.” She gestured for me to follow her. I did, leaving behind my plate but taking the wine. Lady Weber led me across the library and over to a tall gentleman who stood staring up at a landscape painting, his back to us. “Mr. Taylor, this is Madame Jolène’s new country contestant.” At her introduction, the man turned around. “This,my dear, is Mr. Alexander Taylor. He’s quite a prominent fixture here in the city and a wonderful proponent of the arts. He is also a member of Parliament and the head of the Reformists Party.”
The man held out his hand. I shifted my glass from my right to my left and took his hand, uncertain if he was going to shake it or not. Stepping closer to me, he bent at the waist and kissed it. His skin was bizarrely soft, and when he withdrew his hand, there was an oily residue on my fingers. It was some sort of fragrant, musky lotion.
“Oh, Mrs. Clark is leaving—I must say goodbye.” Lady Weber bustled away. The man considered me with an expression that was somehow both uninterested and arrogant. He stood centered against the painting, making it seem like the gilded frame existed to showcase him, not the landscape.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I said, clutching the stem of my glass with both hands, the sharpness of the wine suddenly more prominent on my tongue.
Mr. Taylor seemed to be about forty. He ran his hand through his hair, as though making sure each strand was in place—which they were. He wore a double-breasted suit that was completely black, from the buttons to the cufflinks. The only touch of color came from a burgundy neckerchief tied in an elaborate knot.
“So, you are the country girl.”
“Um... yes.”
“It was my idea to bring you here, you know. I proposed the idea to Madame Jolène as a way to advance the ReformistsParty’s agenda,” he said. His eyes fixated on my ruffled dress, and he nodded, as though pleased. “You certainly look the part.”
I should have said thank you. If it wasn’t for Mr. Taylor, I’d be back in Shy. But there was something about the way he looked at me, as though I was an object, not a person.
“I suppose so,” I said.
“Anyway, you’ve been at the Fashion House. Have you had much interaction with Miss Sophie Sterling? She is...” He paused, and the indifference and arrogance vanished. When he spoke again, his tone was reverent, liturgical even. “She has black hair and eyes.Trueblack—like obsidian or onyx.”
I clutched my glass even harder, my hands slippery from sweat and the lotion residue. He obviously meant my roommate. Normally, if someone asked if we had a mutual acquaintance, I would answer without hesitation. But there was something disturbing about this man, something that went far beyond the rudeness of ignoring pleasantries.
“I’ve met her,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. Sophie was hardly anyone to me, and I didn’t know anything about this man, other than he was the head of the Reformists Party. But I couldn’t ignore the fact that something about him made the fine hairs on my arms stand up. “I haven’t spoken much to her, though. If I do, should I tell her that one of her suitors is inquiring after her?” At the wordsuitors, his lips twitched.
“No,” he said. “I am not just ‘one of her suitors.’”
He took a step toward me and I flinched, unable to stop myself. He was tall, much taller than I’d first realized, and his lean frame couldn’t mask the muscles rippling along his armsand shoulders beneath his jacket.
“When you speak to her,” he said, “you tell her this: Alexander Taylor sends his regards.”
I nodded, certain that if I spoke, my voice would squeak. Whoever this man was and whoever he was to Sophie, I didn’t want any part of it. I broke his gaze to glance around, relief coursing through me when I saw Lady Weber motioning to me. She pointed out the open library doors to a waiting hack. It was there to take me back to the Fashion House.
“I have to go,” I said.
“Remember to tell her,” he said. “Do not forget.”
I didn’t respond. I just hurried away, only pausing to set down the glass of wine. As the hack pulled away, I wiped my fingers on my skirts, ridding them of Mr. Taylor’s lotion. But even though I rubbed them dry, I couldn’t get rid of the musky scent. It hung in my nose all the way back to the Fashion House.
“Where were you all day?” Sophie asked as I entered our chamber that evening. It was a strange question coming from her, considering she was the one always gone from our room. In fact, I was surprised she was there. Earlier this week, I’d asked her why she was always moving her furniture around (“I hate things that stay the same,” she’d said) and why she was never in the room (“I need time on my own”).
“I was at a library dedication.” I stopped just inside the doorway, kicking my heels off, and pulling my necklaces over my head so I could drop them atop the vanity. I yanked at the closures on my gown and heaved it over my head. I left it whereit fell, shedding my Fashion House self like a snakeskin. I was happy to be free of the dress, as though taking it off could wipe away the icky feeling I’d had since leaving Mr. Taylor at the dedication. “Sophie, I met someone at the event. Someone who asked about you.”
“Oh? Who?” Her voice was a little higher than normal, and I walked over to where she lounged on her bed. As usual, she was attired in black and, even though we were in our chamber, she was wearing silver heels that glittered around her bony feet.
“Mr. Taylor.” Saying his name made the musky lotion scent rise in my nose again, as though the smell and the man were indelibly linked. “He asked if I knew you.”
