“That’s fine.” I laughed. “You are exceptionally handsome, so it compensates quite well.”
I almost bit my own tongue. Was I... flirting with him? I’dnever tried to flirt with anyone before. Yet here I was, sitting next to a gorgeous boy from the city, saying things I should not be saying when I had other things to focus on. I hadn’t even mentioned my plan. In fact, I was surprised he hadn’t asked yet why I’d come.
“Why thank you, Emmy Watkins. You’re quite lovely yourself.”
“Do you say that to all the girls?” I couldn’t help myself. I would ask that one question and then redirect everything to my plan. But he was so handsome, and the most charming things flowed right out of him.
“Only you, of course.” He grinned and winked. “Well, maybe not. But I have to say...”
“What?” I pressed.
“Nothing. I’ve just never met a Fashion House contestant brave enough to come to the Republic District on her own.” He spoke frankly, all signs of joking gone.
“They don’t for good reason,” I said, motioning to my shoulder. “Remember, I was clawed by an inebriated man who smelled like a week’s worth of sweat.”
Grayson came up, holding a tray with two white handled cups and a small pot of tea. He placed the entire tray down on the table with a loud thud.
“Cream and sugar, Grayson?” Tristan asked. “You may think I’m a barbarian, but I’m with a lady, and she might desire some for her tea.”
“It’s all right,” I interjected before Grayson could complain. “I actually take my tea black.”
“Isn’t that sweet. Just like you, Tristan.” He scowled at me, but there wasn’t any real malice in his expression. “I’ll let you two lovebirds alone, but remember—a cup of tea buys you two hours in here, no more.”
At the wordlovebirds, my face flushed, and I almost protested. Grayson, though, had already turned away.
“I’m afraid I don’t have any news for you.” Tristan didn’t seem to notice my embarrassment. He was busily distributing the cups and pouring tea into them, as adept as any maid. “I’ve been checking the employee records at the textile mills but haven’t found your mother yet. I’ll still need some more time.”
“Oh, I’m not here for that. Though I do appreciate you checking.”
“Really?” He cocked his head to the side. “Then what brings you here?”
I tried to take a steadying breath. Everything had made much more sense in the safety of my chamber at the Fashion House. “I—well, ever since coming here, I’ve been used for press events. I want to succeed at the Fashion House Interview, but I’m not sure that’s a real possibility. I...” I didn’t know if I could actually say it. I hadn’t told my idea to a single soul. Saying it made it too real, too risky.
“What are you thinking?”
Instead of speaking, I picked up my teacup and took a small sip. When I returned the cup to the saucer, my hand trembled a little. If my plan didn’t work—if it somehow got back to Madame Jolène—my dreams would be over. I wouldn’t even have enough money to get home to Shy, and a disgraced FashionHouse Interview reject couldn’t find another job in the city, that much was for sure. If I did manage to get home, who knew what my mother would say or do. I still hadn’t heard a word from her.
“Are you all right?” Tristan asked quietly.
“Yes.” I took up the teacup again, despite the fact that I’d just set it down. This time I forced my hand to stay steady. I took another drink, slower this time. As I did, I thought about my gown—not the brocade one, but the one I’d drawn for my mother to wear when she came to the city. It had poured out of me like my pencil was enchanted. The story that inspired the dress would never happen, but when I’d sketched it, I’d felt powerful, as though I could somehow will it into reality. “I’m going to make a gown.”
“What?”
“I’m going to make a gown,” I repeated.
“Isn’t that what you do all the time?”
“Not for the Fashion House. For someone else. And I need your help.”
“My help? With making a gown?” Tristan stared at me in shock. Who could blame him? I could still hardly believe the plan myself.
“You’re still interviewing Duchess Sandringham, aren’t you?”
“Well, yes... tomorrow.”
“Could you give her a message for me? Could you tell her there is a new fashion label starting, and they want her to wear their first gown? Tell her it will be a special gown, one that will change everything. She can wear it to the ParliamentExhibition, and then, after the opening speeches, she can come to a debut, where a whole new collection will be presented. Everyone will be there, including the Fashion House critics and reporters from the newspapers.”
“They” was a bit of an exaggeration since, at the moment, I was a one-woman operation. Still, I needed to appear convincing and official. It worked. For a passing second, I felt like something bigger and stronger than what I was.
