My mother took one glance at my face and came to stand next to me. She put her arm protectively around me. I leaned into her, just a little.
“I heard that you and Sophie came here after getting kicked out of the Fashion House Interview,” Mr. Taylor said. Leisurely, he walked in a slow circle around the kitchen, his eyes trailing over each dish, glass, and pot. “I came to see you.”
“See me?” I figured he was looking for Sophie. The thought that he had business with me made the fine hairs on my arms and neck stand up.
“I understand that you’re trying to start a new fashion house.” He cut his circle short and turned sharply to face me. I shuddered, trying to shake the feeling of his silky palm off my fingers. “I can help you with that. The Reformists Party brought you to the Fashion House as a symbol of change. But now I realize we were shortsighted. The Fashion House is theway of the past—and the things of the past must be set aside.” His eyes gleamed as he spoke, and he smiled, as though swept away by his own words. “You and Sophie can start a new fashion house. One funded and inspired by the Reformists Party.”
Next to me, my mother let out a surprised exclamation and, despite myself, my mind began to race.
A fashion house.
There would be no struggle to finish our collection, no desperate need for a debut, no reliance on customers to fund the house. Our futures would be secure.We’d be designers, real designers.
I simply had to say yes. The word nearly jumped from my tongue.
But all I could see were the marks on Sophie’s neck. The way her hands trembled after he’d attacked her. No matter what he offered us, nothing could undo the fact that, underneath his suave hair and stylish suit, he was a monster.
I had done a lot of things I never thought I would to become a designer. Kept secrets. Told lies. But there were lines, lines that should never be crossed, and this was one of them.
“I cannot accept,” I said. “But thank you.”
Dark lightning shot through his eyes. Slowly, methodically, he straightened his tie and his cuffs.
“I’m sure you want to reconsider.” His voice was soft yet slithery. “You cannot be successful in fashion without power, and that power comes either from the Fashion House and the Crown or the Reformists Party. You’ve rejected the Fashion House, which means you’ve also rejected the Crown. You cannotreject the Reformists Party as well.”
“I-I’m counting on a third power.” My mother’s hand was warm against my back and I focused on its firmness. “The power of the customers to purchase beautiful gowns.”
There was a quiet noise—a soft gasp—and we looked to see Sophie frozen in the kitchen doorway.
“Sophie.” A blissful smile crossed Mr. Taylor’s lips and he held out a hand to her. “Come home with me. We will make a fashion house, together. We can find someone else to play the part of the stupid country girl.”
I stared at Sophie, willing her to stand up for herself, trying to impart some sort of strength to her. A glazed, dead expression took over her face, as though she wasn’t in the kitchen or even the pub. Her face had an otherworldly look, like she’d slipped through the cracks of time to a place long ago.
I said, “Leave her alone. She doesn’t want anything to do with you.”
“No.” Mr. Taylor cut me off. “That isn’t true.”
We looked at Sophie. Both Mr. Taylor and I were trying to speak for her, but she needed to exert her own will. To free herself. Slowly, she turned her head in profile—not enough to face Mr. Taylor but enough to see him from the corners of her eyes.
“It’s true.” Her voice was a whisper, as thin as gossamer. “The fashion line is happening. I am going to work with Emmaline.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
At that, Mr. Taylor took a ragged breath, his anger mountingwith his intake of air. Quickly, my mother pushed her way past me to stand between us and him.
“You heard the girls,” she said. “You need to leave. This is my pub, and you are not welcome here.”
Mr. Taylor glared down at her, his veneer of flash and style gone, replaced by raw rage. Slowly, his hand tightened into a fist, and I cried out in fear, expecting him to hit her. Instead, he struck out to the side and knocked a vase off the kitchen counter.
Crash!
Glass shards exploded across the floorboards. I recoiled, more shaken by his violent action than the actual sound or sight of the vase smashing into smithereens.
My mother snatched up her rolling pin. Even though Mr. Taylor was twice her size, she shook it at him.
“Out!” Her face was red. “Get out right now!”
