“Emmaline!” A bulky figure emerged from the steam and walked briskly toward me. I stepped back from the reporter. “Don’t say anything to him!”
Francesco. He swept up to me, his dark mink coat extending all the way down to the train-station floor. A hint of a frilly purple tunic layered over fitted leather pants peeked out from beneath the fur.
The reporter turned to Francesco but not before winking at me. He cleared his throat, straightened his shoulders, and asked in a brisk, professional manner, “How does Madame Jolène feel about Parliament cutting the Crown’s arts funding?”
“No. Comment.” Francesco put his arm protectively around my shoulders.
Without missing a beat, the young man asked, “Will she ask the Crown to renegotiate the budget?”
“We must be going.” Francesco guided me away. “Reporters!” he huffed, even though the young man was still within earshot. “Earth’s scum, feeding on information.” His hand was reassuringly warm and strong on my shoulder. “Welcome, my little scarecrow dresser. We must hurry. Orientation is starting soon, and we must get you...” He trailed off, glancing at my travel-worn, simple-cut overcoat before saying, “Presentable.”
I barely heard him. I twisted around, trying to see the reporter one last time and glimpse his blue, blue eyes, but he was already concealed by the train’s thick, white steam.
We took a hansom cab to the Fashion House, the driver shouting at the crowd from his perch behind the passenger carriage. Francesco prattled on about how ridiculous it was that journalists who wore cotton trousers and boots without spats dared to critique the Fashion House—oh, and no, Francesco wasn’t wearing spats either, but it was a “deliberate fashion choice,” not a “casual attitude about booting.” His monologue slipped into the background with the driver’s cries. I realized I didn’t even know the reporter’s name.
Finally, the cab pulled to a stop and we stepped out into a cobbled courtyard, the cool city air stinging our faces. It was a stark change from Shy, where the summer heat lasted into September, sometimes even October.
“Hurry now. We must give you time to change”—Francesco paused to face me and wave a hand over my entire being—“everything, before orientation.”
I nodded, but I wasn’t looking at him. I was staring up at the Fashion House. The stately brick building was covered in ivy and surrounded by a tall iron gate. Its white-trimmed gables stretched toward the sky, nearly covering the smokestacks emerging from its roof. Unlike the other businesses we’d passed, it wasn’t joined to any other buildings. Instead, the Fashion House stood alone, a striking silhouette against the gray sky.
It appeared we were in the back. A man with a horse-drawn cart was delivering meats wrapped in brown paper, and a woman emerged from the door to dump out a bucket of water. Despite the mundane activities, the place exuded luxury. Through the open upstairs windows, I could see chandeliers, gilt-framed mirrors, and silk curtains, intimations of the beauty and glamour contained within the walls. Francesco called to me, “Come along, Emmaline.”
“You can call me Emmy,” I said, reluctantly dragging my eyes from the Fashion House to him. “No one calls me Emmaline.”
Francesco wrinkled his nose and shook his head. “Emmy? You aren’t a simple milkmaid any longer, dear child. Emmys, Suzys, and Beckys belong on farms, just like Franks belong in law offices or seminaries. No. Here, I am Francesco, and you areEmmaline.” He whisperedEmmalineand it sounded grand, like the kind of name a designer would have.
Still, it wasn’t me. No one from home ever called me Emmaline. Suddenly, everything seemed to be moving too fast. I didn’t have much—just a carpetbag, a few dresses, and me—and Iwasn’t ready to relinquish any bit of myself just yet.
Francesco gently rested a hand on my shoulder, as if he knew my thoughts. “We all make sacrifices, dear. It’s the Fashion House way. Everything tells a story here, names included.”
I nearly protested, but he had already whirled around on his heel to continue inside. I followed him. We entered a narrow lobby and, before my vision could adjust from the light, we started up a staircase lined with art. The first painting was small in comparison to the others, and it depicted a man in a tweed suit. I wondered if it was Lord Harold Spencer. I didn’t know much about him, just that he’d been the previous owner of the Fashion House, years ago, before Madame Jolène had taken it over. Now he was merely a forgotten footnote in Fashion House history.
The rest of the paintings were of famous Fashion House designs, their enormity magnifying the details of the couture. I squinted at them. The first two showed the queen’s watercolor coronation gown and the light, airy red dress with the twenty-foot chiffon train that the wife of the Moroccan ambassador had worn during the Parliament vote several years ago.
The third painting featured a woman in a sky-and-midnight-blue sparkly gown. I stared at it as we passed by, certain it was Princess Amelia in the gown she’d commissioned for the queen’s Diamond Jubilee. It was one of Madame Jolène’s most famous looks and had always been my favorite.
“This way, Emmaline.”
On the landing above me, Francesco turned down a separate hallway. With one last glance at the blue dress, I stepped intothe corridor. It was lined with cherrywood doors and paraffin-oil lamps with glass shades that threw squares of colorful light onto the carpet. Francesco opened one of the doors.
“Enter your new paradise. There is a dress lying out for you. As soon as you are ready, return to the foyer and line up with the other girls. Madame Jolène will direct the orientation.”
My breath caught in my chest like a hiccup as I stepped over the threshold. I barely noticed the door closing behind me or the sound of Francesco’s footsteps retreating down the stairs. A wash of muted colors overwhelmed me—ivories, champagnes, blushes, and soft blues—and I had to blink before I could see any one detail. It was all so still, as though there wasn’t any air in the room and hadn’t been for a long time. Everything was mirrored in the light-blue marble floor—the two vanities, the two canopied beds, and the two full-length mirrors.
Two.
A bottle of violet–witch hazel perfume and a closed sketchbook sat on one of the vanities. The wardrobe closest to it was open, revealing black and burgundy dresses hanging in a neat row. Someone was already living here.
My roommate? I stared at her etched perfume bottle and engraved leather sketchbook and set my raggedy carpetbag down on the marble. I’d never really had any friends in Shy. I’d always told myself it was because Shy was so small, but I knew most of the families didn’t want their daughters hanging around at a pub... or with a girl born out of wedlock.
But this girl wouldn’t know any of that. I could be whoever I wanted here. That was the power of the Fashion House, of thecity. Whoever she was, I would smile at her and tell her she was pretty, and I liked her dress. Wasn’t that what city girls did? And perhaps then, hopefully, we would be friends.
I let out a long, slow breath and briskly walked forward. My shoes made clicking sounds with every step, disturbing the chamber’s pristine, static beauty. They seemed too loud and, without even knowing why, I tried to muffle them.
You’re fine, I told myself.You’re fine. I was tired. That was why, even though I was exactly where I wanted to be, I suddenly was overwhelmed.
I made my way over to one of the beds. The rococo-style headboard was elaborately carved with roses, scrolls, and cherubs, and covered in frosty white paint. A pink gown was laid out, its wide skirts nearly covering the whole duvet. The gown appeared to be two pieces, but it wasn’t. The top reminded me of the precise, collared shirts I’d seen Shy’s judge wear to our parish, only in a soft blush. Small buttons ran down the front, and quarter-length sleeves ended in pressed cuffs. Monogrammed inside the gown’s back collar were the lettersFH. Next to the dress were the necessary undergarments.
