She served it deftly, her hands moving quickly over the teapot. “Cream or sugar?”
“I prefer it black.”
She handed him the teacup, her fingers overlapping his, and she glanced at me.
“Tea?” Her usual snide tone underscored the question. Normally, I would try to ignore it but now, in front of Tristan, the heat of embarrassment chased away the phantom sense of cold glass against my palm.
“No, thank you.”
“They don’t drink tea in Shy?” She glanced at Tristan in a knowing way, as though to say,This country girl is ridiculous.He frowned, and the sight made her jubilant expression dim.
“I just don’t want any,” I said. “But thank you.”
I stared directly at her, daring her to say or do anything else. She hesitated, seeming to consider it. Then, she set the teapot down hard on the tray and flounced out of the room, as though she was Madame Jolène herself.
Once she was gone, Tristan took a sip of tea. I couldn’t look at him, instead staring at the way his fingers dwarfed the porcelain teacup. His knuckles were malformed, as though he’d punched something hard at some point and broken them, and there was a bit of dirt under his nails.
“I’m Tristan Grafton,” he said, and I barely stopped myself from sayingI know.For a moment, I wondered if he’d somehow forgotten all about me. “They started painting over the mural. I thought you might like to know,” he continued. “White. All white. They’ve gotten all the way up Queen Catherine’s body, so she’s a disembodied head now, Emmy.” He paused. “Or is it Emmaline? The Fashion House contacted my editor and told us we had to print your name as ‘Emmaline.’”
So, he remembered. The canvas, the mural. My name. An inane desire to smile built up inside me, even as Sophie’s scent drifted toward my nose.
“The name ‘Emmy’ didn’t exactly fit with the Fashion House aesthetic,” I said. “You can call me Emmy, just... don’t print it.”
My back was to the window, but Tristan’s eyes reflected the daylight back to me. The last time I’d seen him, in the sewing room, the white morning light had washed the color right out of them. But now, the day was bright, and his eyes were bluer than ever before.
“Very well.” He wroteEMMYacross the top of his notebook and underlined it. “Just a personal note for myself,” he explained. “So, how are you today?”
“Good,” I said, wondering if this was part of the interview or just pleasantries. “Busy. I have two other interviews, so I’m worried I won’t have time for today’s competition.”
“A Fashion House Interview contestant who doesn’t have time to compete,” he said. “That’s a sad thing indeed.”
“Yes. And I need to do better than last time.”
“Ah. The navy coat?”
I winced. It made sense that he knew about the coat—the papers printed sketches of our work. I wondered if he knew that mine was so disastrous that it’d been donated to charity.
“That was a misstep,” I sighed.
“It’s all right. It was just one challenge. There are more to come.” The sincerity in his voice warmed me, but it couldn’t dispel my worry.
“I suppose so.”
“Don’t let it discourage you. I’ve seen contestants get mired down by bad evaluations—the key is to shake it off.”
“Easier said than done.”
“That’s true. But Sophie said she’s seen your other designs and that you have talent.”
“She did?”They talked about me.The thought zinged through me. Had he asked about me? I saw them in my mind, standing near each other yet apart, as though forces drew them together while separating them at the same time. I blurted, “Are you seeing her?”
Instantly, warmth rushed over my cheeks. I wished, with everything inside me, that I could snatch the words back.
“No. No, I’m not.” If he was startled by my impetuous question, he hid it well. “I did. Before. But that was some time ago, and while I wish her well, I don’t feel for her.”
Giddy relief rushed through me, surprising me with its strength. I could feel my cheeks turning from pink to red.
“I see,” I said, trying to regain control of my senses, which came alive with the flush of my face. “That question was irrelevant to the interview. I apologize.”
