“I’ll miss you, Johnny.” I meant it. I would. “Maybe I’ll see you sometime.”
“Maybe,” he said, but there wasn’t any conviction in his voice. “I already know, though. Your new fashion house will be incredible.”
I left him in the kitchen while I went to finish packing. We’d hastily sewn garment bags out of old sheets. As I folded up our various pieces, I realized with a start that Johnny was the very first person to say he truly believed in this new venture.
The room we rented in the city was small, about the size of my bedroom back in Shy, but it had a large window that let in light and overlooked the busy street below. With a contented sigh, Sophie said, “The country was refreshing, but I belong in the city. Where I can be seen.”
Even though we’d spent a day and a half on a train, Sophie still managed to look stylish. Her abundant hair was swept into a knot high on the top of her head, and she wore a black coat and black boots with pointed toes.
She worked on the gray-and-nude finale gown, while I focused on my piece: a gray gown covered in hand-cut wisps of organza. I’d spent hours cutting out the wisps of fabric to sew onto the smoky-colored lining. The petals graduated from light gray to dark, giving the impression the wearer was decaying into darkness. My fingers lingered over the fabric. I was decaying too—into an exhausted shell of a person.
I set the dress aside to pull some thread out of our bags. At the bottom, a hint of lavender fabric caught my eye. It was Cynthia’s gown, folded in a Z pattern to minimize creasing. It was almost finished—in fact, it only needed the hem laid and the embroidery stitched down—but now it never would be.
It was sad to know it’d been so close to completion. At first, it had been a symbol of our new way into the fashion world. Later, it had incriminated us. It shouldn’t mean anything to us anymore—we didn’t need it. But, suddenly, I was tired of dispensing with things just because they didn’t suit their original purpose.
“What are you doing?” Sophie looked up from where she was sewing crystals onto the finale piece. The tiny, sparkly crystalsfilled a small box next to her. Even from my distance, I could see the tips of her fingers were red from picking up the shards.
“Just thinking about Cynthia’s gown.” I stared down at the visible part of the dress, letting its details distract me from the impossible amount of work hanging over us.
There was a quiet knock on our door.
“The modeling girls,” Sophie said. She adjusted her gown in front of the long mirror propped against the wall.
I slipped into a pair of heels just as Sophie opened the door. Twelve girls in plain work shifts and aprons entered. They peered around curiously, huddling and whispering together.
“Girls!” I called, and they automatically formed a ragged line. They were all different from each other. Some were tall, others short. One had voluptuous curves, while another one had freckles all over her face, shoulders, and arms. I loved the variances. “We will fit you into your outfits to see what alterations we will need to make. Now, what is your name?”
I addressed the tallest girl first. Not only was she tall, but her torso was straight with hardly any indentation at the waist. Her arms and legs were disproportionately long, like twigs extending from her body.
“Anneke,” she said, ducking her head a little bit.
“Hello,” I said. “It’s nice to meet you.”
She linked her fingers together in front of her. The way she shifted awkwardly in front of me reminded me of someone. I frowned for a moment before I realized who it was. Me, when I’d first met Madame Jolène. I intimidated her, just as Madame Jolène had intimidated me. If I wanted to, I could cultivate apersona of aloofness and pride, something befitting an important designer.
Or not. I smiled at her and she shyly smiled back.
“Thank you for coming,” I said. “Let me show you the dress you’ll be wearing.”
My piece was entirely completed and hanging on a dresser door. I took it off the hanger while Anneke slipped out of her work shift. Just as I’d thought, her torso was straight and her legs unusually long. The gown would hang flawlessly on her body.
“The closure is on the side.” I lowered the dress to the floor so she could step into it. She did so gawkily, holding onto my shoulder. I carefully worked the gown up, inch by inch. It was a tight fit. It had to be—I’d designed it to mold to the body. I laced the side shut with black leather cord and stepped back to see the dress on a real girl for the first time.
The black leather bustier bodice transitioned perfectly into the pleated, charcoal-gray skirt. Dramatic Antwerp lace covered the bust cups and neckline, forming a high collar right at the neck, and cap sleeves, cut from the same lace, cupped Anneke’s shoulders.
“You’re beautiful.” I whispered more to the dress than to Anneke. I motioned her over to the long mirror and stood beside her. She raised her hands to her mouth, gasping.
“I feel...” Her voice trailed off and she ran her hands over the pleated skirt. It shimmered underneath her fingers. “Powerful.”
I knelt to pin the hem. Somehow, this dress had sprung from my heart to my fingertips to the world. Anneke kept runningher hands over the skirt. Her motions reminded me of the way Shy’s farmers would run their hands through waist-high wheat. The skirt moved at her touch, undulating like it was underwater.
I glanced over to see Sophie styling three girls in a tableau. She pointed and hustled them into position. One was standing, one was sitting, and the other one was lounging on the ground, each trying to stay perfectly still. It was a configuration borrowed from the Fashion House’s debuts.
I turned back to Anneke. “Can you walk for me?”
“What?” She abruptly stopped, but the skirt continued to flow around her body.
“Just walk up and down the room.”
