Chapter 10
Ten
As Emmy approached Claremont Originals with Jimmy, she felt a strange camaraderie with the headless mannequins in the front
windows. She, too, wore a luxurious summer gown. She, too, was mindlessly executing someone else’s vision.
And if she wasn’t careful, she, too, might lose her head.
“I’ll be right here,” Jimmy murmured as they stood just outside the shop. “If you change your mind, come on out. Fontaine
will figure out a new plan.”
She tried to smile at him, but his familiar voice coming from a stranger’s face only further unsettled her. All week, she’d
put off transforming him, but with Avalon-on-Hudson growing more crowded by the day, she could not wait any longer. He was
now Zhao Rui, building design specialist. Still ridiculously tall and handsome, but his face was broader now, his eyes more
wide set, and his hair thick and shiny. “You can change your mind, too,” she told him. “Just say the word and I’ll change
you back.”
“Maybe after I make my first million.” His easy smile faded at whatever he glimpsed in her face. “You’ve got this.”
“It’s only a dress shop.” The raspiness of her voice did little to quell her jitters. At least her shredded vocal cords were
an asset now, completing her disguise.
“And she’s only a rich girl. Probably doesn’t even know how to punch.” With a wink, he opened the door.
A bell tinkled as Emmy entered, and a young woman peered up from the front desk. Not Clara. “May I help you?”
“I have an appointment with Miss Claremont?” Damn the inflection in her voice. A true-born heiress would sound self-assured.
But the girl smiled affably. “And what is your name?”
“Winifred Fairchild.”
Emmy waited for the girl to scream “liar” or for the pits of hell to yawn open right beneath her, but, of course, nothing
happened, save the girl scanning her appointment book for Winifred’s name. “Ah, there you are. Please follow me to our special selection, in the back.”
The receptionist led her through rows of ordinary gowns, perhaps in case ordinary people entered the shop. Producing a key,
she unlocked a door in the back of the store. “After you.”
She’d fooled the receptionist. That was a start. Emmy nearly told the girl to walk in herself, in case it was a trap, but
she did as she was told, entering a large, elegant office.
“Miss Claremont will be right with you. In the meantime, can I fetch you anything?”
Did proper girls require tea, or champagne, or a glass of water? What would Grace request? But a shake of Emmy’s head seemed
to do the trick, and the receptionist padded away.
Clara Claremont was about to walk through that door. And Emmy was about to vomit all over her office.
Certain she was sweating through her violet day gown, Emmy sat in one of the upholstered chairs and glanced at a rococo-style mirror above the desk.
Her new reflection was still a shock to her, though she’d practiced conjuring it for days, along with the plainer disguise she’d used for her grueling dance lessons.
But there was nothing plain about Winnie Fairchild.
All the marks Grimsbane had etched into Emmy—her scars, her broken blood vessels, her perennially chapped lips—were gone.
Her mousy brown hair was now a thick, shiny mahogany, one that revealed the subtlest bits of red when it caught the sunlight.
Her pallid skin was a light gold. Her eyes larger and almond shaped, her irises the glittering hue of emeralds.
Once she’d infused her cheeks with a rosy pink and thickened her dark lashes, she was beautiful beyond recognition.
Winnie Fairchild was flawless. Like a blade.
The door swung open, and Emmy hurried to her feet just as an elegant young woman entered, her scrutinizing gaze sweeping over
Emmy. “You must be Miss Fairchild.”
Clara Claremont was curtsying to her. And Emmy was absolutely frozen in place.
For two years, she’d tried to envision this very girl. Her umber curls Emmy had recalled, though they were now adorned with
a stylish floral bonnet rather than with diamonds. Her cheeks were round and, though not as flushed with excitement as they’d
been at the ball, pleasantly pink. But her hazel eyes possessed the same sharpness they had that terrible night.
Clara glanced behind her. “Where is your maid?”
A bit delayed, Emmy managed to copy Clara’s subtle curtsy. “I, ah, don’t have one.”
“You don’t have a lady’s maid?”
“I don’t have one yet. She stayed behind in Paris.” Emmy would need to impart this supposed Parisian maid to Jack and Caleb when they returned.
“Not to worry. I have plenty of girls to help.” Opening the top desk drawer, Clara produced a swath of crimson fabric. “Now,
before we proceed, please remove your gloves and hold this.”
Emmy eyed the fabric warily.
“You’re rather careful, aren’t you?” Amusement danced in Clara’s eyes. “I verified your identity with the triumvirate, but
one can never be too careful.”
They’d met hardly five minutes ago, and Clara was already laughing at her. If only Emmy could bolt from the dress shop before she embarrassed herself further. But Jack’s plan had, apparently, worked, and the chancellor had approved their temporary membership.
Unless Clara was lying and this was a trap.
Emmy studied the swath of fabric. An embroidered snake was coiled at the bottom of it, poised to strike. A piece of cloth
could not reveal her true identity, could it?
Peeling the glove off her right hand, one finger at a time, Emmy took the swath.
The embroidered snake began to slither along the fabric, its narrow body curving and twisting underneath the candlelight.
Enchanted, just like the clouds on Emmy’s debutante gown.
“Looks like you passed.” Clara tucked the serpentine fabric in the drawer. “It only moves for a charmed person. Can’t have
the ordinaries running around in enchanted dresses.”
Emmy managed to meet Clara’s too-clever eyes. “How lovely.”
“My dresses are one thing,” Clara drawled as she led Emmy down a new hall, nodding to a waiting attendant. “But this space
is my favorite creation of all. I consider it a parlor for Society ladies, one where we can speak freely, laugh freely, and,
of course, shop freely. With everyone arriving for the start of the season, it’s nice and full today.”
“Full?” Emmy squeaked. “I can come back—”
“Nonsense. A newcomer is just what we need.” With a self-satisfied smirk, Clara pressed her palm to the wall at the end of
the hall, and a door shimmered into existence. Emmy had no choice but to follow.
Once she stepped inside, she gasped.
Several chandeliers floated above the vast space, which was filled with ladies in colorful dresses lounging on plush chaises
with champagne flutes. Mirrors lined the far walls, zigzagging so as to double, triple, quadruple the reflections of the girls
who modeled gowns in front of them. Downright horrifying, to be surrounded by so many people. Charmed people.
Even more alarming: Grace might be here. In this very room.
“Ladies,” Clara crooned, “please welcome Miss Winifred Fairchild.”
All heads whipped toward Emmy, their reflections following suit like an obedient army.
Surely the great Emilia Vallillo can handle one charmed girl, Jack had said. Yet here were more charmed ladies than she could count. Forget Rose’s prophecy. She was going to slit his throat.
“Is she allowed back here?” someone asked.
And after slitting Jack’s throat, she’d hang him upside down like a calf for slaughter.
“Of course, Mrs. Villadom. The triumvirate granted her temporary status just yesterday.”
That only raised more brows. With a knowing smile, Clara wove her arm through Emmy’s and led her through the salon. She paused
occasionally to point out the gowns fastened to the headless mannequins, but Emmy was no fool. She was the spectacle.
Focus. Emmy tried to make the appropriate expressions of delight as Clara led her through rows of beautiful dresses, the embroidery
of each thrumming with life. On a silk gown as navy as twilight, gold-threaded stars careened across the sky. The floral petals
of a rosy tea dress drifted in a phantom wind. “Touch activates the enchantment,” Clara explained. “But only charmed touch.
We’re forbidden to wear them in public, of course.”
Loath as Emmy was to admit it, Clara’s gift was impressive. According to Grace, their debutante ball gowns had taken Clara
weeks of back-breaking conjury. And there were hundreds of gowns in this shop.
Clara launched into a monologue about her summer line, her flagship location on Fifth Avenue, and her popularity among “all
the right people,” dropping surnames that might have impressed Emmy, had she followed the papers. Still, Emmy made an effort to nod
and smile.
Just what had Grace said to convince Clara to sew rocks into Emmy’s hem?
Emmy’s whole life, she and Grace had known all the same people. They’d played stickball with the same neighborhood kids, sewed
for the same lady on the first floor. Until Clara. It wasn’t that Emmy had been jealous when Grace had begun to gush about
the well-heeled girl she’d befriended at dance lessons; Emmy was more perplexed that Grace hadn’t introduced them. That hadn’t
stopped Grace from imparting Clara’s opinions on practically everything.
Clara says frills are so last season. Clara says the Society boys find elemental gifts unbecoming of a lady.
Each time, the slightest tension had sparked between Emmy and Grace, a brush catching a tangle in otherwise silken hair. But
Emmy had reasoned it away. After all, she was unaccustomed to sharing Grace with anyone, let alone a girl from the elusive
Society.
As Clara continued to explain this season’s in-vogue patterns, Emmy stared at her.
This was the girl who’d sewn fool’s gold into her gown.
This was the girl who had let her rot in jail for a crime she did not commit.
“If you’re here for the season, you’ll need an enchanted gown for each event, at minimum. Every lady with fashion sense will