Chapter Twenty-Three Dress the Part

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Dress the Part

THE PERFECT OPPORTUNITY.

The final event of the summer social season.

The masquerade ball, the one Dahlia brought up in our carriage ride, will be held a mere five days from now. What she failed to mention is that it's being hosted by one of the top Elite families in Lutèce—the Lenoir family.

This is what Dahlia has been waiting for. There won't be a single nobleman who would dare to miss such an event. It's the perfect opportunity for the grandest of thefts—a crime so bold that the chaos that will follow will make the panic of a few years ago pale in comparison. I have no idea how many Talents she's planning on stealing. All I know is that I'm far from being her only employee, and that with her sight set on the most desirable Talents in society, the Elites have no idea what's coming for them.

My job is to find where in the lavish mansion Vicomte Lenoir keeps his gem. The bustling party will provide the ideal cover as I search for it—as I secure a future for Anaella and me.

"You're not a lady. Not a real one. You're a thief." My sister's harsh words, her tears, the horror in her eyes are like a bleeding gash across my heart. Anaella and I have never fought this way before. In fact, we've rarely ever fought at all. But I have no time to lick my wounds now. No time to question myself.

Dahlia's instructions are clear: Steal the vicomte's gem at the ball. Don't stray. Don't go looking for Anaella. Or else . . .

She never voiced the threat, but it is there. I feel it in my bones. She saved me from the evil of those predatory men. She watches over my sister. She can make certain we never end up on those horrific streets. But she equally could have left me for dead, if that had been her choice—abandoned to face a fate I cannot even fathom. Just the thought of it makes me shudder. She claims that she will never let anyone hurt me, and a part of me believes her, that same part that saw the vulnerability within her, that connected to her heart. But I'd be a fool to think this promise will save me if I defy her. Dahlia can spread her protective wings over me . . . or confront me as the angel of death, in the blink of an eye.

The fear and desire within me clash with every thought of her. But the yearning to please her, to gain her love, to find the woman behind the mask is etched too deep, smothering the instinct to flee.

All I can do is put my trust in her and follow her orders.

I flinch as the prick of a needle pulls my thoughts back to the room.

"Lady Adley, I'm so sorry!" Josephine Garnier fusses, readjusting the pin on my sleeve.

The newly reimagined Enchantress costume she has put me in is grand, full of embellishments—from the lavishly beaded flower-pattern front to the standing Medici collar and the sheer silk sleeves, with their six rows of puffs caught by velvet banding. The only element that shows restraint is the color scheme: a burgundy satin for the bodice, paired with velvet in such a dark red that it almost looks black. Ivory lace contrasts it along the sleeves, joined by obsidian beading that provides shiny counterpoints.

The design is inspired, and the garment is well made, fitting for how I'd imagine an evil queen would roam around her castle. I'm certain Mr. Agard will hate it, though. There's something heavy about it, in the choice of fabrics and the way the skirt falls—it lacks the hunger for life that is the essence of the role of The Enchantress.

"Absolute perfection." Josephine admires her work in the mirror. "This will show that director of yours . . . insulting my art." She wrinkles her nose in disdain.

I bite my tongue. Arguing with her and siding with Mr. Agard will only turn her anger toward me. She'll simply have to face the music when I show up to the next run-through in this dress. I can already imagine the modiste and the director locking horns in a battle of insults.

"We should find you a new gown for the coming ball, my lady," Pauline says. Standing by a rack of dresses close to the window, she traces a long velvet sleeve as if revering the soft texture.

I stare at the beautiful garments hanging next to each other in pastel shades and glittering threads. The epitome of everything I wished for lies before me, just waiting for me to take my pick. It reminds me of the dresses Father used to display. Of how Anaella and I used to sneak into the shop at night, trying on the most beautiful gowns, the ones Father wouldn't let us touch during the day. I think he always knew what we were up to—we were never especially careful putting things back in place—but he never said a word, allowing us to have our nightly adventures and nurturing our love for fashion at the same time.

Will Anaella truly come to the masquerade ball, as Dahlia said? Will she take a role by my side as a young Adley? Will she be able to accept my choice?

The way she threw Father in my face still stings. I always thought his sudden death affected me more than it did my sister. Yes, we were both forced to fight for our survival once he was gone, but Anaella always took after Mother. She had Mother's Talent with her, and Mother's legacy to keep alive. I, on the other hand, was always glued to Father's side, had been groomed by him to inherit his gift. When the river took him, I lost both my father and the future he had prepared me for .

Anaella obviously thought that reminding me of what we had lost would stop me. But it is because of what happened to Father that I must do this. I cannot let desperation drown us, too.

"What do you think of this one?" Pauline holds out a forest-green dress with a jacquard woven damask pattern of morning glories. Her face shines as she looks at it, the shade of pine standing out against her skin and complementing her fiery hair.

"You should try it on," I say.

Josephine, startled, almost pricks my arm again in response. "My lady, I'm certain your maid meant to offer the dress for you. This is a gown for a lady ."

Pauline nods quickly in agreement, putting the dress back on the rack as if her touch could somehow taint it. As if she's not worthy of holding it.

"I'm aware of her intention." I look straight at Miss Garnier. "And I stand by my words. I want her to try it on."

Pauline's gaze jumps to me, her entire face lit by a sudden glow of excitement.

The modiste bows her head. "Certainly, my lady." She snaps her fingers, and an assistant appears at the door. "Agatha, please take Miss . . ."

"LaRue. Pauline LaRue," Pauline blurts.

"Yes . . . Please take her to try on the Fresh Green gown."

The assistant stares at Pauline for a moment in shock. "Of course, Mistress," she says a second later. "Please, Miss LaRue, follow me."

I stand taller as they leave the room, warmth spreading in my chest. Pauline deserves to feel like a lady. I used to share her dreams of feeling beautiful and pampered—experiences neither of us should have been denied in the first place. I might not be able to change how society views those unfortunate enough to not have Talents, but I can have an effect on those around me. Just because Pauline wasn't born to the right family doesn't mean all her dreams have to be snatched away. I can help her fulfill them .

"You are very kind, my lady," Josephine says as she reaches to undo the back of my dress. "Not many would treat their servants to such luxuries."

"Pauline is a beautiful young lady, and my dear companion," I say. "I wish to reward her."

Josephine bursts into a fit of giggles, and I chuckle politely. But her laughter only grows as she speaks. "That girl is ever so lucky," she lets out. I glance at her face in the mirror, and even though she's laughing, her jaw is clenched. She almost looks angry, her fingers tugging at the laces of the bodice roughly.

My stomach tightens as I shift my uneasy gaze away from her, waiting for her laughter to die.

I draw in a sharp breath when the dress finally loosens. Somehow, all of her gowns always feel too tight. Definitely not ideal for singing.

"So, how about a dress for the ball?" She heads for her design manual, still giggling strangely. "What about this lovely red one?" She points to one of the sketches. "I already have it sewn. Though I originally made it for someone with a larger bust, there's enough time to alter that."

The fact that Josephine has so many ready-to-wear dresses is baffling to me. How is she able to spend so much time and energy making a gown without knowing who her client will be? Not to mention those off-the-rack dresses she sells on the first floor, delivered straight from her factories and awaiting anyone who comes into her shop. Father always tailored his gowns to the woman standing before him—the perfect work of art to allow the person to shine.

"Oh, I know!" She shuts her book. "I have the perfect gown in the other room."

I step out of the costume's crinoline as she rushes out the door, leaving me to wait for her return.

I walk slowly to her desk, allowing my hand to hover over the thick binding of the large manual. These pages contain the skill and hard work of generations of Garniers, yet, from the few glances I've caught, I can tell that this manual is nothing more than a business product. A way to make the job quicker, to teach the patterns to the workers, to make them accessible for the factories.

Father's book wasn't created out of necessity. It was a creation of love, of passion. I let out a sigh. If only he were here, he'd have made me a dress truly worthy of the event. Perhaps we could also have worked together on the costume for The Enchantress, bringing the director's vision of her to life.

I turn to the window, overlooking the bustling street below. The cafés are brimming with customers, their bellies full of chocolate pastries and warm drinks. Father's shop isn't far from here, buried under darkening rooftops, stuffy alleys, and years of neglect. Anaella must be there, sitting among the pitiful remnants of cheap fabrics, and her endless designs. All alone . . .

I could go to her, leave right now while Pauline is being fitted, walk through the narrow paths until I reach the familiar faded sign above our door. I could run inside and hug her, tell her how much I miss her. How much I'm sorry for everything. We could have the reunion we both deserve. For just a second, the idea plays dangerously in my mind, my hands already picking up my purse. Then my gaze falls on a man sitting at one of the busy brasseries across the street.

He is sipping from a steaming mug, a casquette hat hiding his face. I narrow my eyes when he looks up, as if sensing my stare. I stumble away from the window, my heart jumping into my throat. I recognize those sunken cheeks and bulging muscles. This is one of Dahlia's henchmen—one of my guards, watching my every move, keeping me safe, making sure I follow orders.

Dahlia's instructions ring in my head. "Don't go looking for Anaella." Or else . . .

I let out a shaky breath. If only I knew my sister was okay, that she was starting to come around, or that she forgave me for lying to her. At least then I could go on without the dread pressing on my chest .

I wish Lirone could go to her and report back to me. But the kid hasn't come to see me in the last few days.

Actually, I haven't seen him since before my outing with Vicomte Lenoir.

Where is he, anyway?

Is Dahlia mad at him for helping me cover up my suspicions about the coachman? Could that be the reason he hasn't been around?

I sneak another glance at the busy street, as if I could somehow spot his tiny frame hidden behind a passing carriage or sneaking out of a nearby bakery, slick fingers grasping stolen goods.

"—they should increase patrolling in this area." One of Miss Garnier's assistants flings the door open and I jump, dropping my purse, its contents spilling on the floor. "I'm so sorry, my lady," she says.

But her apology is the least of my concerns, because Josephine has followed the assistant inside and has now bent to pick up the mess I made. I can do nothing but stare as her fingers close over Father's book, making my blood run cold. For a mere second, the sketch of a lime-colored gown peeks from under her grip before she shuts the book. Did she see it? Could she realize what she's holding? And more importantly, could she possibly recognize Father's distinctive style—his artistic fingerprint, within the pages?

"Here you go, my lady." Josephine offers me the book.

I take it with a trembling hand, noticing the strength of her grasp, almost as if she doesn't want to let the book go. But then she smiles brightly and turns to take a subdued aquamarine dress with vivid dark blue and gold accents from her assistant.

I must have imagined it. Surely if she had recognized Father's book, she'd have had questions. Or at least a polite comment.

"We were just discussing the latest news, Lady Adley," she says instead. "Have you read today's paper?"

"I'm afraid I haven't," I say, forcing my heart rate to slow.

"Oh, it's horrible, my lady," the assistant says. "They found another body in the river this morning. It was bruised beyond recognition. The police say it will take time to identify it."

My heart rate spikes yet again. No chance of finding rest.

"Can you imagine going on your morning walk and finding a body? The horror!" Josephine clutches her gem in fright, but her voice is light, giddy.

I shake my head at the sharp contrast. The way her actions clash with the mood she's displaying is unsettling.

"I'm betting it's another drunkard," she continues. "They get into fights, stumble into the water reeking of alcohol, and drown. I say good riddance."

Even though chances are she's right, her words are like drops of venom. Was that what everyone thought when Father's body was found? Was Josephine also laughing back then? I clutch the book tightly as I push it back into my purse. Suddenly the fact that Josephine's fingers have touched it makes me sick. I can almost see her, giddy to gossip about the dead man, without knowing she was the one who drove him to the edge, smothered his future, and all but pushed him into the turbulent water. I struggle to breathe, the air in the room thickening. Even though I'm in nothing but undergarments, I'm sweating.

The assistant giggles. "Maybe it was a passion crime."

"You can romanticize anything, can't you?" Josephine pouts. "What do you think, Lady Adley?"

"I . . ."

"My lady, are you alright?" the assistant asks, the sweetness of her smile matching her faded pink dress.

"I'm . . . not feeling so well."

"You look pale." Josephine's voice is no longer light. "Get her a chair!"

The assistant leads me to the plush armchair in the corner of the room, fluffing the cream and pink pillows behind my back. "Should I call for a doctor, my lady?"

I shake my head. "I'm fine, though I'd appreciate a glass of water. "

The assistant is out the door before I can finish my sentence.

"We can set a different time for your fitting. The ball is not until the weekend," Josephine says as she sets down the gown and cracks a window open for fresh air. "If you come tomorrow, I'm sure I can—"

"No need." I push myself up against the weakness in my limbs. "I will be fitted today."

"But, Lady Adley—"

"Now."

She bows her head before reaching again for the gown she chose for me. As much as I wish to run away from her shop, the thought of coming back tomorrow is even worse. I need to keep up appearances, to be ready for the ball and for my mission. For that, I have to dress the part. But the less time I have to spend in the House of Garnier, the better.

Luckily, Josephine remains quiet as she works, making light alterations to the dress with incredibly precise movements, her gem shining with each one. She finishes quickly, much faster than I would have. I thank her while her assistant helps me back into my own dress.

"Your maid is across the corridor," she says. "She should be ready soon."

I do my best not to dash out of the room and put as much distance as possible between Josephine and me. This place is like my own personal hell, a constant reminder of everything that was taken from my family. At least Anaella saw me on the opera stage and not here . . . walking through the halls of the fashion house that ruined us, with a false name that doesn't honor our father's legacy.

Pauline is easy enough to find. The door to her fitting room stands open, revealing her alone, admiring in the mirror the green silk that is wrapping around her petite figure. She notices my reflection before I step inside.

"My lady." She drops to a rushed curtsy.

"Pauline, this isn't a dress for subservient displays." I let out a laugh. "You look stunning."

A blush blooms on her freckled cheeks. "Thank you, my lady. "

I step closer to her to examine the work. Toggle buttons and wrapped thread run along the front of the bodice, creating a false closure on the crisp, fan-pleated front. There's a double layer of fine piping finishing at the waistline, seamlessly connecting the bodice to the wide, bell-shaped skirt.

At the hem, I notice the row of silver pins the assistant has placed to mark the alterations. My brow knits together and I lean closer, circling around Pauline. The length of the skirt looks right, reaching just past the ankles, but the draping of the fabric feels off. I can already see it pulling up at the back from the tension—the weight of the silk satin not properly accounted for. Once refolded and stitched, it will be almost an inch higher than it is now, exposing the heel.

Bending down, I start reordering the pins, releasing the tense fabric with light strokes.

"My lady, what are you doing?" Pauline takes a step back.

"I'm fixing the hemline. It will be too short otherwise, and you won't be able to wear it."

"But . . . this isn't your job. I'm your maid . . . Besides, I can't even afford this gown, and I certainly don't have anywhere to wear it."

"You'll need a decorative cotton undergarment." I ignore her as I move another pin. "And we'll need to find a mask in the right shade to fit it, maybe something in silver."

"A mask?"

"For the masquerade ball, of course."

Her jaw drops, her gaze shifting back to the large standing mirror. Within its golden frame, she looks like a lady in a painting—a princess of the forest, or a dryad draped in green silk. She passes a hand over her tightly bundled hair.

"For the ball, we'll have to style it for you. Perhaps a high bouffant with a few ringlets falling at the front. Then we'll also need to do your makeup, and I'll lend you jewelry."

"My lady? "

"Maybe a pearl necklace to fit the low neckline, or a pair of emerald earrings to draw attention to your eyes. We'll also need shoes . . ."

"But—"

"Something with a modest heel, or I'll have to alter the hem again."

"But, my lady—"

"Don't worry, Ann, you'll be beautiful!"

I realize my mistake immediately, and let the hemline drop as I look at her in horror. Her brow is furrowed in confusion.

"Pauline." I make sure to use the right name this time, cold spreading within me. I miss my sister so much. I miss my home. I reach for my purse, for the reassuring weight of Father's book, and I realize it's missing. "I . . . I think I forgot my purse in the other room," I say. In my turmoil, I actually left my most prized possession behind.

"I can go get it for you, my lady."

"No." I raise my hands. "The assistant will be back soon. You should finish your fitting. I'll meet you downstairs." I push away from the room before she can object, ignoring the look of bewilderment plastered on her face.

My legs tremble as I close the door behind me. All I want is to leave this place and never set foot in the House of Garnier again. The shop clearly has a bad influence on me. Pauline is not Anaella. I'm not a modiste. I will never be like Father. I cannot match Josephine Garnier's Talent.

I feel as though the corridor is closing in on me, and my feet sink into the soft carpet as if it were quicksand. I hold on to the wall for support, closing my eyes. I need to get a grip. To maintain the perfect facade, and not let anyone see my seams tearing. No one can see me breaking apart this way.

With a deep breath, I straighten myself and look up just in time to catch a glimpse of Josephine's rose skirts disappearing behind the door to her private fitting room as she closes it.

I have to get my purse . . . I cannot leave it alone with Josephine. Not after she saw Father's book. Not when there is a chance her curiosity might overcome her respect for my privacy.

My limbs shake, but I push on faster, gaining control and stabilizing myself with each step. And when I knock on the door, there is only the slightest tremor left in my wrist.

"Miss Garnier?" I call.

The door doesn't open.

I knock again. "I'm sorry to bother you, but I forgot my purse."

Silence.

The pressure in my chest builds. I need to get inside. Hesitantly, I reach for the handle and push. My gold taffeta purse lies innocently on the armchair by the corner, calling to me. But otherwise the room is empty. There is no sign of Josephine.

I pick up the purse, sighing in relief at the weight of the book still inside it. Did I imagine her walking into the room before? I spin around, almost expecting the modiste to jump out at me from behind the heavy curtains. I even check behind the standing mirror, as if she could be hiding, like a child playing hide-and-seek. But there is no one.

"My lady?" Pauline's voice reaches me from the corridor. She must have gone downstairs after her fitting to look for me and come back up when I wasn't there.

I look around one more time, scanning the flowery wallpaper, the open sewing kit on the desk next to the design manual, the large wooden wardrobe, and the rack of dresses—everything in perfect order.

"My lady?" Pauline taps my shoulder, approaching from behind. "Is everything well?"

No. Everything is not well.

"Oh, yes." I force my voice to remain calm. "I'm just tired."

"You should sleep early tonight," she says. "They've been working you too hard in rehearsals lately."

I nod and smile, but my eyes keep searching for crevices along the smooth walls .

Gently, Pauline rests a hand on my shoulder before leading me toward the exit. I follow her, though my muscles are tense, my body screaming at me to search for the truth I already know.

I did not imagine Josephine walking into this room, just as I didn't imagine her arguing with someone the first time I was here.

The House of Garnier has a secret passage.