I addressed her without thinking. All I wanted to do was push away the guilt from ignoring Kitty’s smile.
Ky didn’t reply to me, but she said loudly, “Cordelia, I just don’t understand. This is a challenge, butsome peoplethink they should be helping each other.”
Cordelia nodded, holding some lace trim in her hands. Her wedding gown had the look of a men’s suit on top but with a soft tulle skirt on the bottom.
“If you are both so confident in your work, why does it matter if we help each other a little?” I asked, grateful I could redirect my attention from Kitty to Ky.
“I’ve been told to be one way and look one way my whole life,” Ky countered. “My father wants my style to fit in with Britannia Secunda. But it doesn’t. Because I’m half Britannia Secundan and half Japanese, and I wouldn’t change that ever. I’ve had to fight for every bit of my style—for who I am—and I’m not going to risk losing the competition because you think I should benice.”
Her tone was sharp, defensive. I fiddled with my thread. It was easy to think of Ky as petty and cutthroat, but perhaps she was that way because she needed to be. The longer I was in the competition, the more I realized that the other girls had carried as many struggles here as I had.
“I—” I cut myself off because a flash of black skirt in the doorway caught my eye. It was Sophie, passing by. She still hadn’t given me an answer and, these past few days, she’dseemed more elusive than ever. I only caught glimpses of her as she disappeared around corners or into different rooms. The few times I caught her alone in our chamber, she said she needed more time. If she didn’t want to help me, I would have to find someone else or simplify my collection.
And, since this collection would introduce me to the fashion world, there was no way I could do that.
The night of the gala arrived with a sky full of dark clouds. Its ominous nature was fitting, I mused, as I walked down the stairs to the lobby. The staircase stretched on, making me feel like I was moving in place instead of forward and down. My breath came in short bursts, despite the fact that I traversed those stairs several times a day at a brisk pace, heels and all.
I gripped my clutch. There were sketches inside: two from my collection and another two of gowns I’d drawn specifically for Cynthia. Since she hadn’t been in the society pages for a long while, it was impossible to gauge her style. Hopefully, the four sketches would capture her imagination—and her confidence in me.
Sophie needed to give me an answer tonight, and I needed it to be ayes. Her skills, her connections, and her understanding of the city were essential parts of my plan.
When we reached the lobby, I searched up and down the clusters of girls. Sophie was at the opposite end of the room, talking to Ky. It was easy to spot her. Even though the contestants wouldn’t be formally introduced at the gala, Madame Jolène had assigned us our wardrobe, and Sophie’s wine-colored mermaidgown contrasted sharply with the white marble floors. Black tulle spilled out from under the hem and coordinated with the black tulle wrapped over her neckline and around her shoulders.
We made eye contact, and I started to make my way over to her. This wasn’t the most discreet place to ask if she was willing to join me in Fashion House blasphemy, but I wouldn’t have any other opportunities.
“Ladies!”
I jerked to a stop as Francesco entered the lobby. He was dressed in a gold evening jacket with tails that dragged on the ground behind him. A glossy black headband sprouting long deer antlers rose through his coiffed hair, and his heeled shoes had cloven hooves attached to the fronts. With a wave of his hand, he got our attention.
“All of you shall be transported to the Charwell Palace, where you will mingle with guests until Madame Jolène’s presentation.” He walked forward, his gold tails gliding after him. “Now, where is Emmaline?”
The sound of my name made my heart spring up in my chest like a cornered jackrabbit. I stopped midstep, certain he’d uncovered my plan.
“There you are.” Francesco smiled at me. “As Madame Jolène’s country contestant, you will be introduced formally to the press right before her presentation. You won’t have to say anything, but do make sure I can find you once we arrive.”
Weakly, I nodded. A murmur wound its way around the lobby. The other girls, except for Sophie, stared at me, their faces darkening.
“She hardly even competes, but she gets all the press attention,” Cordelia said to Ky. “For the next Fashion House Interview, remind me to come back as a country simpleton.”
Ky gave a snort of laughter.
Oblivious to the reactions of the girls, Francesco opened the double doors leading to Madame Jolène’s private staircase. And there she was, an entourage of attendants surrounding her and all five dogs prancing at her feet.
I gasped as she stepped into the foyer’s light. She was like a figure from an Italian Renaissance painting. Hand-painted red, orange, and navy roses delicately outlined with an ivory thread spread out over her entire dress. A huge train spilled out from an intricate French bustle wrapped around the back of the skirt, and a giant black hair comb was attached around the side of her face and up into the air above her head.
The press wouldn’t care about me at all. Not when she looked likethat.
Irrationally, I wanted to applaud. Yes, she treated me unfairly, but she was so... so...talented. She was living art—fashion personified—and that’s what I wanted to be someday.
Madame Jolène walked over to us, the elaborate layers of her gown swishing on the marble. I held my breath as she passed by me, somehow convinced she could sense my plans just from my face or the way I held my clutch. Her disinterested expression gave me a rush of relief. She had no clue. I was being paranoid, overreacting.
“You ladies look very nice,” Madame Jolène abruptly announced. “You do justice to my gowns.”
I took an unsteady breath and switched my incriminating clutch to my other hand. Easing my aching fingers, I ran them over the skirt of my dress to hide their shaking.
My gown had a rose-colored bodice that was fitted through the torso, hugging my hips. The bottom transitioned into tufted pieces of raw silk and flowers made from peau de soie and point d’esprit tulle. The effect was of a girl walking through a field of flowers. At the Fashion House, everyone saw me in terms of Shy’s sprawling fields and untamed meadows, Madame Jolène most of all. She was spinning a story in her head about each of us, and I was cast as the farm girl. Madame Jolène didn’t bother to acknowledge the truth: that I had grown up in a pub, not on a farm.
So the gown was beautiful. Of course, everything Madame Jolène made was beautiful. But I’d slowly come to realize that the things she made were stunning illusions. There was no truth behind them.