It’s fine,I told myself over and over again. I closed my hand around the measurements card in my pocket. I would copy it and return it, just in case anyone did check.
I pushed myself up to my feet and walked over to my vanity.Only one thing would calm me. I pulled out a piece of sketch paper and pencil.
I took a breath in, let it out, and then started sketching Cynthia’s gown.
By the time Tuesday came around, we had the plan in motion. The money had been transferred successfully, and Sophie had bought the fabric for Cynthia’s dress while she was out on a date with an approved gentleman caller.
“I think it’s the exact color you asked for,” Sophie said. We were in her fitting room. It was after hours, but we closed the curtain and only lit one candle. She pulled out a bolt of purple fabric from behind the bench and unfolded it so we could spread it out. It spilled across the floor, tumbling over itself, its lightness catching the air before settling onto the ground.
After the encounter with Tilda last Saturday, I’d been a bundle of nerves. Everything seemed so complicated, gnarled, like a sewing thread with hundreds of tiny knots in it, impossible to undo.
“It will be difficult to sew,” Sophie said, seemingly more to herself than to me. I bent down and touched the silk. The fabric was like liquid: soft, sinuous, reflective.
“I know.” It had been my idea to get the slinky silk. “Madame Jolène prefers more structured fabrics because they can make bigger, more exaggerated silhouettes. But I want to do the opposite.”
I started to take the pieces for Cynthia’s pattern out of my sewing box. I’d stashed them there earlier that morning so Icould smuggle them down to Sophie’s sewing room without arousing suspicion.
There were ten different pieces, each one fitting into the next. Slowly, I pieced them together to create the outline of the gown. The white shapes were stark and flat, and it was odd to know that even the most beautiful gowns started from these dull, lifeless scraps of paper.
Hopefully, Cynthia’s measurements were still the same. We wouldn’t be able to tell until she had her first fitting.
“It’s quite complicated,” Sophie said. I handed her the sketch of the dress so she could see it in its entirety.
“I know,” I sighed. “But it’s our first dress, so it has to be magnificent. Do you like it?”
Sophie examined the sketch and then knelt by the pattern. She glanced back and forth between the two and then gave a small nod. Coming from her, the nod might as well have been a glowing front-page article in theAvon-upon-Kynt Times.
Suddenly, we heard a door open far down the hall.
“Are you expecting someone?” Sophie whispered.
Muffled footsteps sounded on the carpeted floor, moving toward us.
“Of course not!”
“Don’t just stand there!” she hissed. She yanked the silk hard, sending the pattern pieces flying like leaves in the wind, and tried to stuff the fabric into her sewing cabinet. I jumped to help her, but the material slid through my fingers, spilling out onto the floor as we tried to crumple it into the drawer. It seemed to grow in length and density with each passing moment.
Sophie slammed the drawer shut just as the curtain flew open and the whole room flooded with light. Madame Jolène stood in the entryway, the brass oil lamp she was holding throwing its glow over us. I ducked my head. I could feel every secret written across my face.
“Good evening,” Madame Jolène said.
She was wearing a red evening robe embroidered with Japanese characters. Her blond hair draped loosely across her shoulders. I’d only seen her hair down one other time, when I’d met her in Evert. I’d been scared then, but I hadn’t felt the worst of it as I did now, standing before her with my heart thundering away inside my chest.
“What are you two doing up so late?” Madame Jolène set the lamp down on a nearby cutting table. For a moment, I had the irrational fear that she could see through the sewing cabinet drawer to its incriminating contents.
“We were looking at patterns,” Sophie said.
“How sweet.” Madame Jolène surveyed the fitting room, her eyes finally coming to rest on me. “I trust you are well tonight, Emmaline?”
“Yes.” I had to force the word out. My hands were clammy and cold, but sweat pricked my forehead.
“What patterns were you looking at?”
“We were—” I faltered, realizing with a streak of white-hot panic that I didn’t know how to finish the sentence.
“Emmaline was showing me her pattern for Lady Harrison’s wedding gown,” Sophie interjected.
“Is that so?” Madame Jolène spoke to Sophie, but she keptstaring at me. “I find it refreshing that you girls aren’t letting the competition discourage your collaboration. Now, let’s see this pattern. Lay it out for me.”
