“I will give individual notes at the door. Each of you must embody a distinct look,” Madame Jolène said.
We filed out one by one, pausing only for her final inspection. Sophie moved easily across the floor, unconcerned. For a second, I stared at her, bewildered. Did she even remember our conversation in her fitting room? My gown and clutch suddenly felt too heavy, as though they would pull me right through the floor to some terrible place beneath it.
“Try, Sophie,” Madame Jolène said as Sophie stood in front of her, “to be less severe. You are always on the borderline of bitterness, and it’s terribly unattractive. Mystery is your angle. Mystery.”
Alice stepped up next, her blond hair shining against her lavender gown. Baby-blue crocheted lace covered the skirt in a delicate spiderweb pattern. Madame Jolène instructed her to be birdlike, wideeyed, and girlish. She told Ky, whose white gown was like folded origami, to be quirky and exotic. I listened, realizing I wasn’t the only one Madame Jolène stereotyped. Cordelia, of course, was told to be strong and stern.
Kitty was next, and Madame Jolène ordered her to be friendly and sophisticated. That, at least, fit the image she’d cultivated. She was demure but elegant in a classic navy-blue dress with a long train and an ivory sash.
I tried to keep myself from cringing as Madame Jolène’s eyes fastened onto mine. I could feel my cheeks turning hot and red, my guilt a second rouge.
“Emmaline,” she said, “remember your posture.”
Then she waved me on. Normally, I would’ve been stung by her dismissal. But now I hurried out into the courtyard, grateful to get away from her watchful eyes. I was safe. No one knew anything, at least for now.
Fat raindrops started to fall just as we arrived at Charwell Palace. The hacks unloaded their passengers beneath an awning that dipped from the weight of the rain. As I stepped onto the cobblestoned entryway, I wanted to reach out my hand and collect the drops. I hadn’t felt rain since arriving at the Fashion House. Or wind. Or the warmth of the dwindling fall sunlight.
Every Sunday evening in Shy, I would walk to the bluffs overlooking the pond behind our pub. Rolling fields dotted withcottages would stretch out in front of me and, as the sun slipped down into the hills, it would suffuse everything in orangey-red light. No matter how many times I saw it, I was compelled to worshipfully raise my face to the last hot rays.
I let the cold wash over me. I couldn’t be homesick. Not now, when I needed my wits about me.
“What on earth?” I heard Alice ask. She faced outward from the palace, squinting into the night. Then I heard it. Shouts and running footsteps. Pinpoints of light in the night emerged from the opposite end of the courtyard. Figures appeared out of the dark, carrying signs and lanterns. They formed a line just outside the awning.
“Come in, ladies!” a servant called to us, eyeing the protestors. The other girls ran inside, but I edged closer to see the gatherers. They wore old, torn clothes, and their hair hung in strings around their faces. Many of them held signs. It was hard to read them in the dark, but an occasional lantern splashed light over them, illuminating phrases written in harsh scrawl: FASHION FOR EVERYONE, NO MORE FUNDING FOR THE FASHION HOUSE, END THE CROWN’S RELATIONSHIP WITH JOLÈNE.
The coolness of the night vanished as my body broke out in a sweat. This was the protest Mr. Taylor had mentioned. Only there was nothing small about it.
“Emmaline!” Through the noise, I heard my name as a figure detached from the group of protestors.
“Tristan?” He was holding a small pad of paper, but as I watched, it was knocked from his grasp.
“Lovely evening!” he shouted at me over the din. He didn’t seem frightened, but his body was tense as he was jostled about. “You should probably get inside, Emmy.”
“What about you?”
“Don’t worry about me.” He gave me a quick smile and then pointed to Charwell Palace. “Good luck tonight.”
I nodded and bent down to pick up my skirts. I headed into the palace, hoping Tristan’s luck would get me through the night. When I stepped into the Charwell Palace’s foyer, I couldn’t see any of the other girls. Only a few servants milled about, and one of them, seeing my uncertainty, gestured at two double doors.
“The party is through there, miss.”
I stepped through the doors, and immediately all thoughts of the protestors and my plan evaporated. I was in an entirely different world. A huge glass dome designed as a peacock’s tail arched over our heads. Stained glass in jewel tones of green, purple, blue, and gold made up the intricate tailpieces. Candles hung on wires from the dome’s underside, small pricks of light against the glass. Panels of mirrored mercury glass lined every single wall. On the far side of the ballroom, there was a stage framed in blush velvet curtains. Its painted backdrop featured the distinctiveFHinsignia encircled by roses, fluffy white sheep in lace dresses, and white cuttleworms in tiny hats.
Couples danced in the center of the room while others chatted along the walls. Musicians played stringed instruments, and servants circulated with trays of champagne flutes. Slowly, sounds of lively conversation started to build.
I made my way to the edge of the room, grasping my clutch. A maid offered me a glass of champagne, and I took it. I leaned against one of the mercury-glass panels. The bubbles stung my throat as I drank it down, grateful for its coolness.
Even though I wasn’t moving, the ballroom seemed to spin around me. Maybe it was the dancing partygoers. The women’s skirts blended with the men’s tails until they were nothing but a colorful blur. Hints of early fall had crept into the latest styles: warmer colors, thicker fabrics, and fuller skirts, even though it was clear that none of these people went outside. Their skin was as white and thin as pages from a Bible.
I drained my glass, the last few drops rolling over my tongue. My head was hot and pulsing, and I raised the chilled champagne flute and pressed it to my forehead. Would Cynthia even come? Across the ballroom, I saw the gazebo just outside a window that overlooked the gardens. It was empty, and the sight left me more panicky than the protestors had. Cynthia was the linchpin to my plan. Without a person of interest to wear one of my gowns, I’d have no way to garner any attention for my line.My line.I nearly laughed aloud.
That was a joke. I was a joke.
Sophie still hadn’t given me an answer, and it seemed doubtful Cynthia would attend tonight. The throbbing in my head grew. I pushed myself away from the wall. The air was hot and stuffy, and light seemed to flash off every silver tray, mirror, and piece of crystal. I walked along the edge of the room until I reached a door. I didn’t know where it led, but I stepped through it, needing to getawayfor a few moments.
I found myself in a long corridor and paused to let my eyes adjust. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined the hallway’s right side while more mercury-glass mirrors lined the other. Rain pelted the glass, running down the panes in wavy lines. The sounds of the gala were muted, and drafty air cooled my skin. I breathed in and out, trying to gather my thoughts, trying to gather myself.
A door on the hall’s far side was open, and long shadows—silhouettes—stained the walls. I heard someone speak and knew immediately who it was. The voice was as distinct as its owner. Walking over to the door, I peered inside to see Sophie and a dark-haired man standing in the center of the room. Neither of them seemed to notice me.
