“You’re back?” It was now a question, not a statement. Her face, which had been soft, stiffened into creased forehead lines and taut mouth. “What’s going on?”
“I—” I didn’t know where to start.
“Where should I put these?” Johnny asked when I didn’t continue. He held out the pillowcases and my carpetbag.
“What’s in those?” my mother asked. “And who is she?”
“I’m Sophie Sterling,” Sophie said. She made her way over to the kitchen table and sat down, relaxing into the straight-backedchair with a sigh. “I was in the Fashion House Interview with Emmaline.”
“The—the competition wasn’t quite what I thought it would be.” I had the vague idea that we should sit down. There was too much space between us, and we were facing each other as though we were adversaries, not mother and daughter. But I didn’t know how to suggest it, not when she stood there, waiting for an explanation. “I tried to start a new fashion house with Sophie, but Madame Jolène discovered it. We were kicked out yesterday.”
“And you came home.”
“Yes.”
Her eyes sparked again, just like they had when she first saw me. I wanted to stop there and stand in the warmth of her gaze forever. But I couldn’t. I had to dash her hopes. Again. Just like I had when I left the first time.
“I’m home for now.”
My mother seemed to retract into herself, like a snail curling into its shell. Then she crossed her arms and lifted her chin. I knew this look of pride. I’d seen it over the years, but this was the first time it had been directed at me.
“I see. What is your plan?”
“To finish the collection and debut it after the Parliament Exhibition. We would like to stay here until then... if that’s all right.”
“Stay here?” my mother echoed me. Before I could respond, she abruptly turned and walked back to the dining room table. She picked up her knife. The sharpchopof the knife severing the carrots filled the room.
“Please, Mother,” I said.
Chop.
Chop.
Chop.
Her only answer was the vigorous slice of her knife. One piece of carrot rolled off the cutting board, but she didn’t stop to retrieve it. Johnny shifted and awkwardly set down the pillowcases next to the carpetbag.
“I should be going,” he said. “I’ll leave these here, if that’s all right.”
None of us said anything, and he backed out of the kitchen. The minute he got to the dining room he hurried to the front door, as if he couldn’t leave fast enough.
“Well.” Sophie stood up. “Is there a place I can wash up while you two... talk things out?”
I nodded, still looking at my mother. She set down the knife and, without a word, picked up the cutting board and dumped the carrots into a pot.
“I’ll take you up to my bedroom, Sophie.” I left my mother in the kitchen. After a few minutes, I heard thechop, chopof her knife start up once again.
We never did talk about it that night. In fact, my mother didn’t say we could stay, as much as she didn’t tell us to leave.
I woke the next morning, bewildered. I was in my old room, under my old quilt, but there was an elbow jabbing me in my back. Sophie’s elbow. I sat up and rubbed my eyes.
There was a voice, too. It drifted up the staircase andthrough my open bedroom door. One that I knew, but one that most definitely did not belong in Shy. It was a cold fingertip against my spine. I jumped out of my bed, quickly tore out of my nightgown and into one of my old work dresses, and hurried down to the kitchen.
A man stood in the middle of the room, talking to my mother. He wore a black suit with a dark red tie and matching cufflinks. Almost involuntarily, I wiped my hands on my skirt, as though they were covered in oily lotion.
“Ah, there you are,” Mr. Taylor said. His eyes followed the lines of my plain work dress. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“What are you doing here?”
