He pushed past her and out through the dining room. The door slammed hard behind him, so hard it rattled the glass in the windows. My mother lowered her rolling pin and turned around to where I was backed against the kitchen table. She asked, “Are you all right?”
I didn’t trust myself to speak, so I bobbed my head up and down in a nod.
My mother’s face was still red. “This is what happens when you go to the city. You get caught up in things much bigger than you and then...” She gestured to the shards of glass covering the floor.
“I-I’m sorry. I didn’t think he would come here.” Numbly, Ireached for the broom and dustpan. “I didn’t mean to bring any trouble here.”
My mother held out her hand for the broom.
“It’s fine. I’ll take care of this.”
“No, I’ll do it.” I didn’t want her to clean up the glass. Not when I was the one who’d brought Mr. Taylor there. Not when I was the one who kept hurting her.
“I’m sure you girls have things to do.”
“She’s right.” Sophie spoke from the doorway. Her face was whiter than normal, but she sounded resolved. “We have a lot to do.”
She turned and headed up the stairs to my bedroom. I didn’t follow her. Not just yet. I grasped the broomstick; my hand stood just below my mother’s hand, my eyes searching her face. I wasn’t certain what I was looking for. Maybe some sort of forgiveness, or even just understanding. My mother gently placed her hand over mine, loosening my grip on the broom.
“Go on now.”
“Mother—”
“It’s all right, Emmy.” Her fingers grazed my cheek as she tucked a strand of my hair back from my face. “Your friend is waiting.”
“I really am sorry,” I said, letting go of the broom handle. “I’m sorry for—” I cut myself off.Everything,I wanted to say.I’m sorry for leaving you to run the pub alone; I’m sorry for wanting a life that’s far away from here; I’m sorry for not being the daughter you need.
But such openness and such words weren’t my mother’s way, so I swallowed them down.
Sophie and I started sewing in my bedroom, taking turns on my old decrepit sewing machine. I was glad to immerse myself in work. It eased the terror Mr. Taylor had brought to our pub.
“I’m surprised Mr. Taylor came here,” I said. Sophie waved her hand glibly at me, her attention on a measuring tape she’d laid across a tulle skirt. Methodically, she pulled it through her hands, lips pursed.
My head ached. I frowned down at my stitching, as though ignoring the pain would make it go away. I watched Sophie as she smoothed out the gray tulle, her brow furrowed in concentration, her shoulders bent over the fabric.
Perhaps that was why she was so obsessed with designing. It was the only way to outrun the taint of Mr. Taylor in her life and lose herself in something beautiful.
“Did you ever try to leave Mr. Taylor’s manor before going to the Fashion House?”
Sophie’s fingers froze on the measuring tape and her foot tapped against the leg of her chair. It cast a jumpy shadow across the floor, one that sprang forward and back.
“No. I won’t pretend to think you could ever understand. It’s terrible to take help from someone who... hurts you.”
I nodded, trying to indicate that I understood, but she was right. I didn’t.
“Sometimes the demons in your head are so strong that you don’t know how to fight the ones in real life.” There were longpauses between her words, as though she was trying to fathom the unfathomable into speech. “I did have one plan to get away before going to the Fashion House. But it wasn’t quite right, so I abandoned it.”
“What was it?”
“It’s not important. Going to the Fashion House was the best option, or so I thought at the time.” She gathered up the measuring tape. “The funny thing is, I could have stayed in the competition. I could have become a designer. Madame Jolène told me several times. I didn’t need to do this.”
Though her tone was guarded, her eyes watered. Or, I thought they did. I couldn’t conceive of her crying. The wateriness had to be something else, a reaction to the stuffy room or bleariness from her exhaustion. It had to be something—anything—other than tears.
“I don’t just want to run from Alexander. I’m tired of being under other people’s control, especially when they don’t deserve it. That’s why I’m glad we’re designing our own collection. It’s so different designing our own pieces here, free from the Fashion House. Don’t you agree?”
Free. I wasn’t sure what the word meant. We were free from the Fashion House, but now we were in Shy, far from the city, facing an uncertain future. Freedom, it seemed, was falling into darkness without knowing if we would be caught at the bottom.
“Well...”
