“Because it’s all around me at home,” I said. “It’s what I know: hard work and functional items mixed with beauty. It’s me.”
“That’s a good quote,” he said, offering me that lopsided smile. He lowered the notebook and sat back. The smile still played at his lips, but his eyes stared at me, open, thoughtful. “You’re an interesting girl, Emmaline Watkins.”
“Is that so?” I stared hard at him, trying to determine if he turned on this charm for all women, or if he really did think there was something different about me.
“Girls in the city aretaughtto be stylish, but you... you figured it out by yourself.” He spoke slowly, as if he was thinking hard about what he was saying. The spaces between his words were a change from his typical quick way of speaking. “And Madame Jolène picked you over the other candidates. That’s pretty impressive.”
I sighed, tempted to let him think I alone had caught Madame Jolène’s eye, that she had specifically wanted me, Emmy Watkins, at the Fashion House. I wanted to sell him this piece of fiction in the way that Madame Jolène sold her designs to her patrons, as a mesmerizing story. He already knew I was the political hire, but I wanted him to think more of me. However, even though the story gathered on my tongue, I couldn’t utter it.
“That’s not exactly what happened. Madame Jolène didn’t pick me so much as I forced myself on her.” The truth—the fact that Madame Jolène would probably send me home after the Fashion House Interview ended—wanted to pour out of me, but I stopped. Tristan was a member of the press who no doubt wanted good stories more than most men wanted a pile of gold. And even if I was drawn to him, I needed to be wise. “I’m happy to be here; don’t mistake me. But things are a little... limiting here for someone like me...”
I shrugged, leaving the thought hanging in the air between us.
“I’m sure it hasn’t been easy for you.” He leaned forward, his cunning smile gone for the moment. His eyes weren’t just blue, I noticed. Small flecks of green dotted his irises. “I’ve seen the pressure on the Fashion House lately, and I’m afraid you’re a pawn in all of it.” That sly smile pulled at the corners of his mouth again. “Albeit a very lovely pawn. But it must be a hard spot, no?”
Yes, I wanted to say, but I couldn’t discuss that.
“It can’t be much worse than writing about mermaids.”
He laughed then, brightly, unapologetically. It made me relax,the tension from the past days melting away in the warmth of the sounds. For once, I wasn’t worrying about fitting in or covering up my lack of knowledge about this thing or that.
“At least I have interviews with actual people this week. You today, and then in a few weeks, Duchess Cynthia Sandringham.”
“Who?”
“She’s Prince Willis’s former lover. It’s an old story, but it still sells well,” he said. “Everyone loves reading about a woman in disgrace.”
Prince Willis’s former lover. The painting of the blue dress hanging in the staircase. Every time I’d passed it, I imagined it lifting right off the canvas to hang in the air, invoking the scorned princess who wore it. I’d never given Cynthia, the prince’s paramour who’d been blacklisted from the Fashion House, a second thought. Her part in that narrative was only to contrast the beauty of Princess Amelia and her blue gown.
“She’s a sad figure,” Tristan said. When he brought the teacup to his lips, it looked like he was gulping beer, not the Fashion House’s finest Darjeeling. He returned the cup to its saucer with a sharp clink. “Always asking me to try to put in a good word for her to Madame Jolène. She doesn’t understand I never actually interview Madame Jolène—and that Madame Jolène is many things, but sympathetic is not one of them.”
“Then where does she get her fashion from?”
“Personal seamstresses, I think. All previous Fashion House Interview contestants, but their styles aren’t anything in comparison to the gowns from the Fashion House. She hasn’t been in the fashion pages since the jubilee—for a duchess, that’sdevastating. Lately, she’s been in a pretty bad state.”
“Bad state?”
He pantomimed someone drinking from a bottle.
“I think she might be desperate enough to show up at the gala for Madame Jolène’s new designs.”
Every season, Madame Jolène held a gala to introduce the theme of the upcoming collection. Anyone who was anyone in Avon-upon-Kynt’s elite attended, and theTimesalways devoted several pages to covering it.
“She’s not invited,” he continued. “But she says she’s going this year.”
I nodded, unsurprised. Before, I would’ve said that behavior was ridiculous, but now I knew the truth. The Fashion House was enough to make anyone crazy. Or drunk.
“She’s convinced herself that if she just talks to Madame Jolène, she’ll be able to persuade her to take her back. She really shouldn’t worry. Things are changing, and the Fashion House will probably have less influence very soon.”
“Because of the Reformists Party?” I thought about the mural in the train station, now nearly covered in white paint.
“The queen is a Fashion House devotee, but the monarchy’s power is dwindling. Have you heard about the Parliament Exhibition that’s happening next month? The Reformists Party has been billing it as a fun event with food and entertainers—but everyone knows it’s an excuse for them to give speeches and round up support for their causes.”
“In Shy, the papers always make it seem like the monarchy is so strong,” I said. “I guess that’s not true.”
“Not particularly,” Tristan said. “The Reformists Party wants Britannia Secunda to be known for more than just our fashion.”
“Oh yes, they want factories, right?” I recalled what Francesco had just told me. “I suppose the factories do create opportunities for people.... When my mother was young, she actually came to the city to work in one. Of course, there were only a few back then.”
