Madame Jolène’s private fitting rooms were on the highest floor, next to her personal chambers. Sophie was the only Fashion House Interview candidate who had seen them before, and she entered with practiced ease, immediately striding over to a dark-gray fainting couch and sitting down. I hesitated at the threshold before walking over to stand next to her.
“Where is Madame Jolène?”
“She’ll come when she’s ready,” Sophie said. “She never waits for anyone. We always wait for her.”
The walls were covered in dark wood panels. Floor-to-ceiling windows opened to views of the perfumery’s fourth floor directly across the street. A row of gowns arranged in a gradient of length and formality hung on a gold rolling rack, and an army of mannequins stood nearby in an orderly line. While our rooms had cotton forms, the ones in Madame Jolène’s were silk taffeta with mahogany bases.
There was only one mirror in the room, a bold choice.Usually, customers demanded a trifold mirror and a large handheld mirror to see the front, back, and sides of the gowns. It appeared Madame Jolène did not cater to that desire.
Everything was oriented around the dresses, aside from a table scape of gilded birdcages, the only decoration in the room. The cages were empty and the doors stood open.
“I was expecting more opulence.” I thought about the Fashion House’s lavish wallpapered and chandeliered lobby. “This is so bare.”
“This way there is nothing to distract anyone,” Sophie said. “The focus is on the gowns.”
Madame Jolène, it seemed, let her art speak for itself.
“Good morning, girls.” Madame Jolène swept in from the side room, bringing with her a spicy aroma of patchouli. She wore a navy-blue gown that had shiny jet buttons stretching in a long, ant-like line up the skirt to the bodice and wrapping all the way around the collar. Her measuring tape hung around her neck, her permanent replacement for a necklace.
She was carrying a standard Fashion House sketchbook and, just before she turned her attention to it, her eyes swept over both of us. The tiny muscles around her mouth tensed, and then released. It happened so fast I almost wondered if I’d imagined it. The sight, as brief as it was, made my stomach clench and twist.
“Good morning, Madame Jolène,” Sophie said, rising from her spot on the fainting couch. If she was nervous, it didn’t show.
“Good morning, Madame Jolène,” I repeated.
“We will be having a forty-minute consultation today,” she said, preoccupied with the sketchbook.
“Is it an initial consultation?” Sophie asked. I didn’t understand how she was so calm, especially now with our secret collection well on its way to completion.
“Yes. We will take basic measurements and discuss the client’s needs,” Madame Jolène said. Typically, when she made her rounds of the fitting rooms or previewed our work in the sewing room, she was brisk and annoyed at our incompetence. But today in her own chambers she was animated; her tight brow lines of disapproval were gone, and her steps were light.
“Ah! Here she is now!” Madame Jolène set the sketchbook down as the doors to the fitting room swung open. I turned to see the client, a polite expression fixed on my face.
Cynthia?
Her name leaped to the tip of my tongue, and I barely stopped it from escaping. I was seeing things. A woman had entered, and I had transformed her face into Cynthia’s. I was exhausted. That was the only explanation.
Next to me Sophie sucked in her breath sharply and didn’t let it out.
“Cynthia, welcome,” Madame Jolène said, extending her hand. I blinked, desperate to change reality, butshewas still there. Cynthia. Our Cynthia, whose gown was the centerpiece to our new line.
“Thank you, Madame Jolène,” she replied. “It has been too long.”
She sashayed forward, reaching out to take Madame Jolène’shand. As she did, she looked over at me, and a small smile quirked her lips.
“Please, sit.” Madame Jolène motioned Cynthia toward two chairs opposite the fainting couch. They both settled onto the furniture, their skirts spreading out over the upholstery, their faces masked in courteous smiles.
On the surface, they epitomized their roles perfectly: wealthy Fashion House customer and powerful Fashion House owner meeting for an appointment. But things stood out to me—the way Madame Jolène had them take the chairs facing us, how Cynthia didn’t seem surprised to see us—and the tightening in my stomach turned into churning.
Cold fingers suddenly curled around mine. Sophie. She raised a shoulder in an imperceptible shrug and shook her head.
Stop,she was saying.Calm down.
Her eyes were empty and her mouth was firm. I tried to mirror her expression and subdue the whirlpool of thoughts in my head. If I didn’t, I’d say something that would give us away. Ever so slightly, I took a step back so I was standing shoulder to shoulder with Sophie. Whatever happened, I needed her by my side.
“It’s been quite some time,” Madame Jolène said. “Have you been well?”
“Yes, thank you.” Cynthia’s voice was clear, strong, and slightly smug.
