Chapter Five The House of Garnier

CHAPTER FIVE

The House of Garnier

"GOOD MORNING!"

Light assaults my closed eyelids and I burrow deeper into the soft feather cushions. Wrapping myself in velvet, I nestle back into the realm of sleep, returning to my dream. I'm the lady of an estate, wearing fine jewelry, possessing a Singing Talent so grand the power emanating from its gem is almost tangible.

"My lady, it's time to wake up."

I snap my eyes open.

Pauline stands by the edge of the bed, a silver tray laden with breakfast in her hands. "I hope you slept well," she says as I sit up.

"Incredibly. I mean," I catch myself, "yes, very well indeed."

My stomach growls at the sweet smell of the golden apple turnovers and the buttery warmth of the freshly baked croissants resting on a china plate decorated with roses, sitting temptingly beside a steaming cup of hot chocolate.

"I thought you might prefer your breakfast in bed today, my lady, before your appointment with the modiste. You will also have time to enjoy the fashion houses and lunch at a café, since Madame will be coming only later in the afternoon for your lesson."

"Thank you." I smile at Pauline .

"Just ring the bell when you are finished. I'll be outside." She curtsies before leaving the room.

I lean back into the pillows, covering my mouth to stifle a laugh. My fingers dig into the blanket, the softness of the linen against my skin proof that I'm not dreaming.

But it's the hot chocolate sitting before me that fully grounds me in reality. I take a deep breath as I swirl it, watching the chocolate flow slowly, thick as cream. My mouth waters even before I take the first sip. I cannot remember the last time I had sweets, let alone drank cocoa. These were luxuries my sister and I couldn't afford.

Bringing the porcelain cup to my lips feels sinful, but I cannot resist. Dark and bittersweet richness coats my tongue before flowing down my throat. And when I dip the flaky croissant in the chocolate, I know this is the taste of heaven. I never want to eat stale bread or drink souring milk again. By the time my plate and cup are empty, I have a cream mustache—definitely not ladylike, but who's here to see?

My nightgown brushes the carpeted floor as I hop out of bed and open the door out to my balcony. A morning breeze caresses my face and I close my eyes, savoring the fresh scent of morning dew upon flowers. There are no traces of the shadows of last night. The world is still.

If only Anaella could be here with me.

And just like that, a chill takes hold of me. My eyes jump to the desk drawer holding Father's book. But I have no time for reminiscing. No time to doubt my choices. To keep this life and help my sister, I need to play my part—to be the lady of the house. A day of errands could help with that. Heading inside, I ring the tiny bell on my nightstand.

It takes Pauline an hour to style my hair and help me into a gown. Today's garment is a little too big for my frame, especially in the bust. Even the foundation corset is loose. I can probably fit two fingers between it and my skin, but I don't mention it. It's a layered, deep blue silk gown, with white lace ribbons along the neckline and at the sleeves' edges. Fitting with the current fashion, Pauline pairs it with a wide hat adorned with gray feathers that somehow even matches the purse she hands me—a reticule of gold taffeta with steel-cut beads and tassels.

I try to keep steady in my leather heels as Pauline leads me outside to a waiting carriage.

A coachman rushes to my side. "I'll help you with the door, my lady."

I'm nodding at him politely when recognition freezes my insides. This is the same young man I helped right before I snuck into the estate. The one Lady Adley shouted at for scaring the horses. But he couldn't possibly recognize me, not when I barely recognize myself in these clothes. Could he?

"My lady?" He offers me a hand to help me into the carriage.

The tall feathers sticking out of my hat force me to bend down as I climb inside. But when he closes the door, our eyes meet at the window, and for just a second I think a crease of confusion appears in his brow. A moment later, he's at the front of the carriage and the horses trot ahead.

My heartbeat accelerates. I could be imagining it. After all, our meeting was so short he might not even remember me. But if he does . . . he could expose me—not the cousin of the great Adley, but a common thief who stole an identity. I tug at the collar of my dress as I imagine the carefully cultivated lie unraveling. For once, I'm happy the corset is too large; if it fit, I most definitely would have fainted from lack of air by now.

"Are you feeling well, my lady?" Pauline asks.

"Yes. If only the roads were smoother, riding would be far more pleasant, don't you agree?" I say with the most aristocratic voice I can muster.

"Indeed, my lady."

The river sparkles outside the window as we cross the main bridge. Soon we are forced to slow down by the commotion and carriages clogging the streets .

"It's just up ahead," Pauline says as we come at last to a stop.

The coachman opens the door for us and my stomach twists, but his head is dropped in a bow. No hint of anything unusual.

I just need to play my part. Keep my head high. Pushing my chest out, I step onto the street, trying to exude the confidence of the rich lady I turned into overnight. But my spirit falters at the sign above the shop's entrance: House of Garnier.

"I made sure to pick the finest modiste in all of Lutèce, my lady," Pauline says. "Josephine Garnier herself is expecting you."

The image of Father sitting by the sewing machine fills my mind, his voice echoing in my head. "A perfect dress is a reflection of both the tailor's soul and the muse it's created for. That is what turns a garment into art."

"But Papa, look at the newspaper! How can we compete?" I said, fanning the crumpled page with the article about the House of Garnier's new factory in front of his face.

Father just laughed. "These stores might produce dresses faster. But, mon coeur, people like Josephine Garnier have the skills but not the heart of a true artist. Having a Talent is not enough. It's how you use it that counts."

He was wrong.

And here I am, about to be fitted by the woman whose ascension was the force behind his bitter end.

A bell rings over my head as I step into the shop, and I'm hit by the scent of vanilla perfume. The entire left side is dedicated to mannequins in beautiful dresses, while the right side displays gentlemen's suits. Between them stands a statue of a winged angel, surrounded by low benches covered with red velvet. Straight ahead, a wide set of stairs leads to a raised floor, where, I can only assume, are the separate fitting areas. My mouth drops in awe at the sheer size of the place.

"May I help you?" A woman rushes to my side.

"Lady Adley is here for her fitting," Pauline says .

"Of course." The woman curtsies. "Miss Garnier is just upstairs. If you please, follow me."

The second floor is broken into smaller rooms, each one decorated with opulent furnishings. Through the few open doors, staff members wait, readying themselves for a day of fitting customers and altering clothes.

The woman leads us along the corridor to the farthest edge of the store. I never imagined a fashion house could be this lush. Next to it, Father's shop is like a stuffy basement. What would he say if he could see me now, about to be fitted by his competitor?

The door ahead is closed, yet as we get near whispering voices drift through the air. I cannot tell any words apart, but it's clear the conversation is heated. I strain to hear better, just as a loud smack reverberates from inside the room.

"Wait here, please." The assistant hurries ahead and knocks on the door.

At once everything falls silent, and a moment later the door swings open.

"What?" a woman snaps.

"Lady Adley is here to see you, Mistress."

Another stretch of silence, and then the assistant moves to the side, revealing Josephine Garnier herself.

"Oh, Lady Adley!" She curtsies dramatically as the assistant waves us forward. "What an absolute pleasure."

Plump lips land on the back of my hand as Miss Garnier takes it. She's a tall woman, who definitely doesn't need the high heels she's wearing. Her hot-pink dress has a deep neckline of flowing fabric matched with an underlayer of lace that travels all the way up to a high collar. The sleeves are sheer, and there's a beautiful, trimmed finish on the skirt. But her garment is just the background for the true star—a square-shaped pink druzy gem, hanging from a gold necklace. The perfect display for the Talent of a high-end modiste .

"We were so stricken when we heard about your traveling misfortunes," she says as we enter the room. I turn my head from side to side, looking for whoever she was arguing with a moment ago. But the room is empty. "Rest assured, we will make certain your new wardrobe is tailored to perfection," she continues.

"That's very kind of you," I say, though I'm not focused on her words. I can't see any exit other than the door we just stepped through. Could she have been talking to herself?

"Always at your service, my lady." She curtsies deeply again. "I have a few dresses in mind for you already, and my designer has prepared new sketches for you to look at."

I follow the gesture of her hand to a book perched upon a nearby desk. Unlike Father's pocket copy, this fashion manual is massive, featuring detailed designs and patterns. A delicate sketch of a green gown stares at me from the open page, but what captures my attention are the numbers—measurements made not for a single lady but for a variety of sizes. This is a ready-to-wear gown to be sold for all who desire it. Prêt-à-porter. Something Father never had the chance to try and compete against.

"Oh, this one is not for you, my lady." Josephine closes the book quickly. "For you, we need dresses that are one of a kind. But first we have to get you out of that corset—that size is all wrong for you."

I only manage to nod before two more assistants walk into the room. A moment later, I'm standing on a raised platform as they undo all of Pauline's work from the morning.

If Josephine was truly arguing with the walls just a moment ago, her work doesn't show it. She takes my measurements efficiently, faster than I ever did for a client. Her gem pulses lightly with each movement, and my stomach tenses with a tinge of jealousy. I mentally check each measurement she writes down from the list Father taught me. Height, bust, waist, shoulder angle—she misses nothing, all the way down to the size of each individual wrist. She might be eccentric, but I cannot deny the grace of her Talent .

"Let's try this first," she says, helping me into a burgundy dress laced with black flowers. "With this bodice, you will have the thinnest waist you've ever seen."

She starts pulling at the strings to tighten it when the door bursts open. The two assistants yelp, and Pauline leaps forward to block me from sight.

"How long does one have to wait in this place until a competent person appears?" a young man says, his voice low yet filled with the undertones of a brimming storm. "Is competence too much to ask?"

"Monsieur le Vicomte!" Josephine hurries forward, and I panic as my dress almost falls. "If you will please follow me outside, my lord, I'll make sure my finest assistant takes care of you."

"With all due respect, Mademoiselle , your assistants have already done enough damage. Is this the House of Garnier or the House of Amateurs?" The man sneers and crosses his arms.

For a noble, his manners are certainly poor. And no matter how much I want to dislike Miss Garnier, she doesn't deserve to be questioned in such a manner by this arrogant man.

"There's no need to be rude," I say, and the room falls quiet.

The man shifts his gaze to me, his brow raised as though surprised anyone has dared to challenge his words. For a second I'm struck by his eyes' bright shade of green, like a cat's.

"Lady Adley, I'm so incredibly sorry." Josephine tries to make the man follow her out the door. "If you excuse me, I'll be right back with you."

But the man doesn't move. "Adley?" he muses. "I didn't know the old crone had relatives."

Even with Pauline and the assistants standing before me and my hands holding up the top of the bodice, my undergarments are clearly visible. Embarrassment bubbles within me, the need to hide overwhelming. "Well . . . I . . ." I bite my tongue to stop my stuttering. He needs to believe I am his equal. Relaxing my shoulders, I elongate my neck, placing one hand on my hip. "I demand you leave at once. "

A lopsided grin stretches on his lips. No person this arrogant should be this handsome. His complexion is graced with warm hues of amber, and his hair is a rich brown, falling on his forehead in waves. There is something deliberately disheveled about his look, as though he didn't even care to straighten his vest, or button his cuffs. Yet somehow it only makes him more attractive, almost wild. Heat rises in my cheeks, spreading down to my neck, and a strange yet not unpleasant shiver passes through me.

"Make sure they don't mess up your seams," he says, his tone the perfect mixture of amusement and disdain. "The fabric on my jacket sleeves is puckering."

"It just needs more tension. That type of wool is probably too heavy," I blurt before I can think.

He raises his eyebrow at me once again.

"Yes, well. It is indeed an easy fix," Josephine says. "If you please, my lord. I'll be right back, Lady Adley."

The man finally tears his eyes from me, turning without another word and striding out of the room. I let out a pent-up breath.

"Are you alright?" Pauline asks me, hurrying to lace up the bodice of my gown so I don't need to hold it up any longer. "Such insolence."

"Indeed . . ." I say, my vision still lingering on the closed door the man disappeared behind. His rudeness left a sour taste in my mouth, yet my pulse quickens at the thought of his emerald eyes. I focus on slowing down my breathing.

Pauline finishes tying the dress. "I didn't know you could sew, my lady."

"Oh." I blush again. "It's just a hobby."

Two hours, at least twenty dresses, and countless apologies and bows later, I'm finally out of Miss Garnier's shop. The sun is high in the sky and the ladies all around are strolling with open parasols, protecting their sun-deprived skin.

Even though my wardrobe will be sewn and sent to me in just a few days, Miss Garnier insisted I leave her shop already wearing a new gown from her collection. The lively orange satin is tailored to perfection, cinching me at the waist, and yet I feel like a decorated tangerine with the extra layers of tulle covering my skirt.

"For you, my lady." The coachman offers me a parasol as soon as I leave the shop and step onto the street.

I take it with what I hope is a graceful nod. We are at the upper end of the avenue, where endless displays stretch out—another fashion boutique, another jewelry store, another art gallery. Yet my mind is on the narrow alleys behind them. Getting home from here wouldn't take long.

"I'd like to walk for a while," I say.

"Are you certain, my lady? I can take you wherever you like."

I want to decline his offer politely but stop myself. If he suspects me, I cannot show any softness. "I believe I made myself clear. I shall be back within the hour." Not waiting for a reply, I turn down the street, with Pauline accompanying me at a deferential pace or two behind.

I need to see Anaella, and I refuse to let another day pass.

My mind skips between different apologies I can give for leaving without saying goodbye. I need to come up with an explanation for my new clothes, though, and why my new employer would have spent so much on me already.

I adopt a lazy, strolling pace, feigning interest in the changing displays. Gentlemen tip their hats at me as I pass; ladies offer smiles. Never before did any of them bother to acknowledge me, yet, with nothing more than a new, expensive dress, I've finally received my invitation into their secret club. The thought adds a few inches to my height as I hold my head higher.

The alley on my left calls to me; the familiar route home is inviting. I almost turn down it when I realize I can't go anywhere as long as Pauline is at my heels, trailing me like a watchdog. I need to get rid of her.

That's when the smell of fresh cake drifts through the air. Just ahead, the door to the bakery closes after a customer leaves. I halt for a moment. That same bakery used to be near Father's shop. It was one of the first businesses to relocate when the Elite abandoned our street after Father's death. I sigh, taking another deep breath. This sweet scent is the answer to my problem.

"Pauline, will you be so kind as to run to the patisserie to get me some cake?"

"My lady?"

"All these measurements made me hungry."

"Of course."

"I'd also like some pastry," I add, wishing to buy more time. "I don't mind which one, but I want it fresh, so just wait until they bring out a new batch."

"But what about you, my lady? I cannot leave you for so long."

"I'll be right here." I gesture to the nearby jewelry shop.

Pauline doesn't move. "I shall accompany you. Your first outing in the city should reflect your position. I could not possibly allow people to think you have no maid. But worry not, my lady. Mr. Basset will run to the patisserie."

"Basset?" My mouth dries as I follow her gaze. The coachman is just slightly farther up and across the street. He must be keeping his eyes on us, making sure I never truly have to walk. My heart sinks. I could never sneak away from them both.

"I'll ask him. I'll be just a moment." Pauline curtsies and then crosses the street carefully between the carriages.

Desperation clutches at my throat. I must see Anaella. We have never been separated like this. It's bad enough I can't tell her the truth, but I need to let her know at least that I'm safe. All the new dresses and luxuries mean nothing to me if my sister isn't well. Why didn't Dahlia allow her to come with me? My eyes dart to the alley, and for a second I debate making a run for it.

That's when I notice a young boy leaning against the brick wall. His clothes are nothing but dirty rags, his face is smeared with ash. Our eyes meet, and I expect him to drop his head in shame, but instead he blinks through thick lashes as if studying me.

Across the street, Pauline talks to the coachman. I don't have much time.

"Boy," I call. He inches closer, dirty blond curls sticking out from under his hat. "I need you to deliver a message. Can you do that?"

He nods silently, eyeing the purse Pauline handed me this morning.

I stuff my hand into it at once, feeling for any coin. My fingers close around a heavy velvet bag and I pull it out, emptying it into the boy's outstretched hands. The gold is enough to last him a month. "There's an old dress shop I need you to find. The name Finley will be above the door. Ask for Anaella. Tell her—" I drop my voice to a whisper as Pauline crosses the street back toward me. "Tell her, Cleo sends her love. Tell her I'm fine and that I'm doing all of this for us. And that I promise I'll take care of her."

A second later, the boy disappears into the dark alley and Pauline is by my side.

"Was that boy disturbing you, my lady?"

"Oh . . ."

Pauline shakes her head in disapproval. "Little criminals waiting to pickpocket hard-working people. It's all because of these foolhardy parents. Having more than two children should be outlawed, if you ask me."

The conviction in her voice is too strong, personal. I have wondered if Pauline's own circumstances are cruel—if, like me, she knows the pain of never getting to hold an inherited gift, denied by tragic, untimely death or reckless parenthood. Now it seems I have my answer.

"These young ones shouldn't be on the streets like this." The bitterness in Pauline's voice pinches my heart.

"Yes. They really shouldn't," I say before biting my lip and turning into the jewelry store, leaving the alley behind.