I took another breath, this one quick and short, trying to energize myself and push away my frustration. For now, I would focus on the customers, design in my head, and try to keep moving forward.
Three appointments later, I was gritty and sweaty... and bleeding.
“You’ve stabbed yourself,” said my customer, Madame Solange, staring down at me as I knelt by her hem, taking out the basting stitches.
“Indeed,” I said, standing. A drop of red blood welled up on my fingertip. I’d impaled myself on a straight pin. I sighed. It was common to stab oneself with a needle at the Fashion House. Straight pins and sewing needles were used every day and frequently lay scattered across the tabletops and floors. But the puncture was on my sewing finger, the one I used to push needles through cloth. It would be bothersome, especially for the detail work I’d have to do on my wedding gown. I needed to start wearing thimbles, even though I hated how they felt.
“Be careful not to get any of that on my gown.” Madame Solange sniffed.
“I will,” I said, holding my finger away from the dupioni silk. She was right to be wary. A bloodstain on silk was impossible to get out.
I glanced around my fitting room for some spare cloth, but I hadn’t cleared my room between appointments. I picked my way across the fitting room, stepping over the mountain of wire crinolines and spools of thread littering the floor. I’d even left a few gowns wrapped in their muslin bags hanging on a hook. I held my bleeding finger aloft, terrified it would drip.
“Tell the maid to bring me another glass of champagne while you’re out there,” Madame Solange said. I nodded and walked out into the hallway, heading for the washroom. Sometimes Madame Jolène occupied the dressing room adjacent to the washroom. The spacious, private chamber was reserved for customers who were titled or wealthy enough to warrant Madame Jolène’s attention, but not important enough to be invited to her private fitting rooms.
The curtain to the dressing room was closed, but I heard Madame Jolène’s cool voice coming from inside.
“Yes, we will just raise the hem a quarter of an inch. It will be perfect. The tip of your shoes will show as you walk, but when you’re standing still, the hem will extend to the floor.”
I slowed, wondering if I should go to the washroom on the second floor. I didn’t want Madame Jolène to see me with my bleeding finger. I was trying to change the way she saw me, and bloodstains on her gowns would not curry her favor. I listened hard. Madame Jolène’s customer responded. They were obviously in conversation. If I was quiet, I could slip by without being noticed. I stepped forward, trying to be quick but noiseless. One step, two, and then—WHOOSH!
The curtain swung back on its rings.
I wheeled around to see Madame Jolène sweeping it aside. I stilled, finger held aloft.
“Emmaline? What on earth are you doing here?”
“I—” I started to explain, but then stopped. I had seen something just beyond Madame Jolène, something that bewildered me. Standing behind her was a woman I didn’t recognize. I had the blurry impression of dark hair and olive skin. But beyondthat she was inconsequential fuzziness; I only saw her gown.
The woman stood there, staring at me, enfolded in a jade jacquard dress. The pattern—mypattern, the one that had bold dramatic swoops accented by smaller straighter lines—was woven into the fabric with gold thread. Soft tendrils of chiffon pulled delicately across the neckline, almost like gentle curls. I stared at my brocade gown that was somehowhere, in the world, a composition in thread and fabric.
“Is that my gown?” I turned from the dress to Madame Jolène, still confused.
“Your design was used for it, yes,” Madame Jolène said. Those needle eyes of hers met mine, and there was nothing in them. No understanding, no guilt, no indignation. Nothing but empty grayness—and that was the deepest insult of all. She stepped aside, gesturing down the hallway, motioning for me to continue, dismissing me as she always did.
But I was done being dismissed. I planted my feet, distantly feeling the blood from my finger running down my wrist and soaking into my sleeve. My thoughts clarified, the confusion replaced with anger. She’d made my dress without telling me—even as she minimized my role in the competition, even as she used me to make the Fashion House look better.
“You didn’t tell me you were having my gown made,” I said.
“Excuseme?” The woman let out a haughty snort. “This gown was specially designed for me by Madame Jolène.” She turned to Madame Jolène. “This is highly unusual, is it not? Whatever is she talking about?”
“Don’t mind her,” Madame Jolène said evenly. There was analmost imperceptible change in her face. Slowly, the blankness tightened into coldness. I thought she would say something—anything—to explain or defend herself, but instead she asked, “Aren’t you on your way to the washroom?”
“Yes, but—”
“This is neither the time nor place to discuss this.” Madame Jolène’s eyes narrowed at me.
“I don’t understand.” I wasn’t really thinking now. I was just speaking, my words carried forth on my pent-up frustration. “I’m not an actual contestant in the competition, but you made my gown. You want to send me home at the end of this. But I’m talented. You know I am—”
“Home.” A bit of a smile winged its way across her lips, and then it was gone. “If you wish to question me and my actions, Emmaline, you will be going there much sooner than I’d originally planned.”
The threat hung in the air, and suddenly I hated her. I hated that she had the power, and that all I could do was stand there with my gown only a few feet away, and that no matter what I did, I could never possess it again in the same way. It was made; it had gone from sketch to dress, and I hadn’t even known until a moment ago.
“Do you wish to go home now, Emmaline?” Madame Jolène asked smoothly.
For a few seconds, I didn’t know what I would do. My rage swarmed and gathered inside me, my thoughts like bees readying for an attack. But, somehow, I suppressed those black points of fury.
Instead of continuing past the consulting room to the washroom as Madame Jolène had instructed, I turned on my heel and made for the fitting rooms. I’d been holding my hand up, but now I dropped it to my side.
