Sophie waited expectantly.
“Yes,” I said. “It’s just right.”
I’d been lying a lot lately, but this lie felt different. It felt more important than the truth.
We spent the entire day sewing, spreading the pieces of the collection across my bedroom floor and bed. The various gowns, overlays, skirts, and jackets were a little rough from their journey in the pillowcases. Snags marred some of the silks, a few small holes had appeared in the laces, and dirt stains dotted the fabrics. Even so, the pieces looked opulent and rich in my drab room.
“Do you think we’ll have time to finish everything?” I rubbed my forehead. It was late, very late. I’d tracked the time throughout the day by the activity of the pub. The dinner customers had come and gone, and I’d heard my mother wash up the last of the dishes before heading to her room to sleep.
That had been the worst. I had wanted to go help her wash the dishes and set out the pint glasses and silverware for tomorrow, but I couldn’t. Not when I needed to finish our collection.
“We can finish everything if we work nonstop,” Sophie said. “But maybe we should take a break.”
“I can stoke up the fire downstairs in the kitchen. We can have some stew.”
“Might as well. If we don’t stop to rest, we’ll start making mistakes.”
Down in the kitchen, I ladled stew into two bowls and I opened a bottle of cheap cooking wine. I devoured my mother’s stew, letting its heartiness stave off my exhaustion. I’d never been so worn-out in all my life. Everything was piling up—the tiredness from the Fashion House schedule, the trip here, the encounter with Mr. Taylor, the day spent sewing without anybreaks—everything ached, especially my fingers.
Knock, knock.
The sudden rap at the pub door made us both jump. It was much too late for anyone in Shy to be out and about. I met Sophie’s eyes. We were both thinking the same thing.
Mr. Taylor. He was back.
“Emmy?” A voice came from behind the door, drifting from the dining room into the kitchen. I was so certain it was Mr. Taylor that it took me a moment to realize that the voice wasn’t Mr. Taylor’s at all. It was much too young, too energetic.
“Tristan,” Sophie said.
I sat up straight, all fears and exhaustion forgotten. Then I noticed Sophie. She grabbed her glass and gulped at the wine as though it were water. Pushing her chair back from the table, she stood up, running her fingers through her hair and arranging it so it hung down on one side of her face in beautiful waves.
Was she primping for Tristan? My Tristan? I realized, with a jolt, that while Tristan no longer fancied Sophie, she might still fancy him.
As though the pub was hers and not mine, she crossed through the dining room and opened the door. I followed a few paces behind.
Tristan entered and Sophie threw her arms around his neck in a hug. In her heels she was his height, but she tucked herself against him, her entire body pressed into him so that she seemed small in his arms. A sharp pang—the sort one feels when running—contracted in the spot right behind my heart.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “So far from the city!”
She pulled back her head and placed a kiss on his cheek. It was a quick kiss—nothing like the one Tristan and I shared at the gala—the sort one friend might give another. Still, a flash of embarrassed anger flared hot on my cheeks. Tristan didn’t return the kiss, and his eyes found me, even as Sophie stood right by his side.
“I went to visit you at the Fashion House, and Francesco said you’d been fired and left with Sophie.” He crossed the floor and came to stand next to me. Without hesitation, he hooked his arm around my waist, drawing me near. “I came to see if you were all right.”
Tristan’s back was to Sophie, but I could see her over his shoulder. She stared at us, her face somehow grimmer than usual. She saw me watching her, but she didn’t glance away. Instead, she responded the way she had back at the showcase. She gave a small half smile and shrugged.
“Let’s go to the kitchen. It’s warm there,” I said, awkwardly filling the silence. I was happy when Tristan’s hand stayed around my waist as we made our way back to the kitchen. I wanted to melt into his arms, but I couldn’t. Not with Sophie so closely observing our affection.
“What happened?”
“Madame Jolène found out about our plan. We got kicked out, so we came here to stay until the exhibition,” I said. “But it seems everyone knows it. Mr. Taylor was here this morning.”
At the nameMr. Taylor, Tristan’s face paled to a shade similar to Sophie’s.
“He’s gone now,” Sophie said, guessing the reason forTristan’s pallor. She picked up her wineglass. Swirling it with one wrist, she sent the liquid spinning inside the goblet. It orbited dangerously close to the top but not quite close enough to spill over. “We’ll be gone by the time he returns. Besides, Emmaline’s mother scared him off.”
Without making Tristan move his hands, I grabbed my wine and took a long drink. The purple liquid rolled over my tongue. Even after I swallowed, the bitter taste clung to the roof of my mouth.
“Emmy.” Tristan spoke to me and me alone. “Maybe things are too dicey right now to start your own collection. I know I encouraged you to do it, but the city is in such a precarious state. I didn’t realize starting your fashion house would put you in Mr. Taylor’s sights.”
