Chapter 2
Blanche de Clare was located in upper Delibera, the tops of its glass domes glistening like a jewel amongst the ordinary tiled roofs of the neighboring establishments. My jaw had dropped when I first laid eyes on its exterior, its grandiosity rivaling the royal palace.
The interior was even more impressive, if that was possible.
I could see the atrium from my vantage point now on the topmost floor of the department store, five levels of gilded balustrades sectioning off each story.
The domed glass ceiling let in a flood of natural light, illuminating the crystal display cases within which many fine wares were laid out: crystal bottles of perfume, delicate lacey gloves, and intricately painted fans.
The lobby was covered in a lush seafoam green carpet, leading to a sweeping marble staircase that led up, up, and up.
The proprietor of this massive department store was Mr. Walter de Clare, a self-made businessman with no noble bloodline, as far as I knew. I presumed he would appreciate a witch pulling herself up by her bootstraps and would be eager to speak with me about business.
“Mr. de Clare will not see you.”
“I have an appointment,” I insisted.
Mr. Griffin, the secretary seated behind an elevated counter, peered down at me with a raised brow. “As you did the past two times?”
“I have a real one this time,” I said, my face heating. “Check your schedule, if you must.”
Mr. Griffin frowned and flipped through his papers. “Miss Giselle...”
“Phula,” I supplied. I had already given my name the past two visits, but it seemed it didn’t stick with the secretary.
Mr. Griffin sighed. “You have a slot for ten minutes.”
I exhaled a relieved breath. I had asked Narcissa for a favor this month; it seemed that a note emblazoned with the Greenwood insignia had done wonders in squeezing me into Mr. de Clare’s busy schedule.
A pair of massive double doors loomed at my right, flanked by small windows that provided glimpses into the room—Mr. de Clare’s office. I pushed the doors open and entered, letting them shut ominously behind me.
“Who is it?” A broad man with graying blond hair and a curled mustache sat behind a magnificent mahogany desk that dominated the space.
“Miss Giselle Phula, sir,” I said, shifting my weight on the lush carpet beneath my feet.
“Who la?” He squinted down at me. Recognition slowly spread over his paunchy face. “Ah. You’re the chit who waved madly at me through my office window last week.”
I glanced guiltily behind me at the window in question, which had since been polished of my palm prints. I was surprised to be recognized.
“I’m honored to have your attention, Mr. de Clare,” I said politely. “You refused to see me last time.”
Mr. de Clare looked at me pityingly. “Surely a young lady such as yourself would be more interested in exploring the other floors. There are no fripperies here, my dear.” He gave me a condescending smile.
“You’ve received the letter of recommendation from Lady Narcissa?” I asked.
“Yes of course. The royals’ charity work has been interesting, hasn’t it?”
“I’m here to ask about a business venture,” I continued.
Mr. de Clare laughed. It would’ve been a jolly laugh in any other context, but at this moment, it grated. “And what do you know of business, young miss?”
I had gone about this all wrong. I should’ve begun with my credentials before he went off belittling me.
“I was the royal seamstress last winter during the crown prince’s engagement tour,” I said. “I have a dress shop and I would be interested in moving it into Blanche de Clare.”
Mr. de Clare raised his pale brows. “Indeed? And do you have any proof of your previous employment?”
There never had been any paperwork when I was hired as the royal seamstress. Only records of my position in the Witch Committee. “I’m sure I can get it at the palace, but there was a fashion publication last winter—”
“And this shop of yours, what is it called?”
I’d never named it. Mrs. Lewis forbade any permanent signage on the glass or walls, claiming it was unsightly property damage. I could only depend on my display window, hoping the garments behind it was enough to convey that the establishment was a dress shop. “It’s just called, er... dress shop.”
“Pity. Never heard of it. Do you have any ledgers or reports showing that this place of yours is profitable?”
I opened my mouth and closed it. I had so few patrons I didn’t see a point in keeping ledgers. Even if I had, it would only show that my shop was not profitable in the slightest.
Mr. de Clare shrugged. “I’m afraid I cannot offer you anything if you do not have a legitimate business.”
“I have the business license for witches,” I countered.
The license was given to any witch who wished to take their business aboveground, and also signaled to potential customers that the establishment was witch-owned.
It was all relatively new, but as far as I knew, it was still proof that my shop was legitimate.
“Ah. A witch business. Disorganized things, I hear,” Mr. de Clare said. “I am sympathetic to your kind, Miss Hoola, but even if I wanted to help you, there are no vacancies in my department store. You may find better luck elsewhere. I hear landlords of South Delibera are renting.”
I clenched my fists. That I already knew. After all, I was renting from one of them.
Mr. de Clare was treating me like a little girl who didn’t know what she was doing, and I was beginning to feel like one. Hadn’t Ma told me this would happen?
But I was never one to give up so quickly. I raised my chin. “Mr. de Clare, I shall return with samples of my work and my ledgers next month. Whenever your schedule allows.”
Mr. de Clare waved a dismissive hand, jeweled rings glinting on his thick fingers. “I’m sorry, my dear, but you are far too young and inexperienced. Perhaps you may come back in a decade or so and solicit a witch-owned department store, if one of your kind decides to start one. Griffin!”
Desperation clawed at my throat. I had set my heart on this place, just as I’d been set on joining the Witch Committee.
But this time, there was no secret ability I could expose to get myself accepted.
I was just a girl from Witch Village with no real accolades.
What could I provide him that he didn’t already have?
I let Mr. Griffin escort me out. The secretary shut the door behind me, but not before I heard Mr. de Clare’s voice say “...unruly witch girl.”
I clenched my fists. Perhaps he was right.
No proper society miss, or even a respectable business woman, would have acted the way I had to get his attention.
Last week I had tried to gain an audience after already being rejected once, taking it upon myself to slip past Mr. Griffin and wave frantically to Mr. de Clare inside, hoping he would let me in out of sheer curiosity.
I shortly learned that the methods that worked in the Witch Market didn’t translate here.
I’d been hesitant to use the royal connections I had, but this time, even with Narcissa’s letter, I had bungled it up.
I looked down at my beige skirt and fancy blouse. Clothing, for once, wasn’t quite enough to get me through this.
As I was descending the marble steps to the lobby, my eye caught on an empty square of space between the millinery department and the perfumery. It was an enclosed shop, though three of its walls were made of glass, the interior filled with empty shelves.
There was a vacancy!
I was ready to march right back up to Mr. de Clare’s office until the sign on the glass caught my attention.
Jeraldine’s Dress Emporium.
***
MADDOX WAS STILL WAITING inside when I returned.
“How did it go?” he asked, standing from a sofa in the lounge area.
I was tempted to tell him everything, that I’d have to set my sights elsewhere, that my charms were as good as useless, that perhaps I wasn’t cut out for this after all.
But the hour was late and I was too exhausted to complain.
Besides, Maddox would balk at my vulnerability.
Our friendship had never been based on emotional availability.
“It was fine,” I said dismissively. “Follow me.”
I ducked beneath a set of chiffon curtains that led into the small fitting chamber. The walls were covered in indigo damask wallpaper, a gilded mirror mounted on one of them. A low wooden platform and a plush bench completed the room.
It would have been my favorite part of my shop if it weren’t for the rickety door adjacent to the mirror. It opened up to a dark staircase which Mrs. Lewis frequently descended—though there was another staircase that didn’t lead straight into my shop.
I gestured for Maddox to get on the platform.
His eyes lit up. “So you’ll make me a new wardrobe?”
“I don’t work for free,” I said sharply.
“How much?”
I told him the price.
Maddox’s face tinged green as he shrugged off his coat and waistcoat and draped them over the bench. “Uh...can we make that a quarter of a wardrobe?”
“Blew through your allowance that fast?”
He had the decency to look ashamed. I sighed. I was hoping an order of that size would garner at least two months of rent, leaving me with comfortable savings, but alas. For better or for worse, Narcissa was paying me in installments, and I had to make do with those current funds.
I made quick work of taking Maddox’s measurements. Shoulders, waist, back. I jotted down the numbers in sullen silence, wishing I were making a ballgown for a society lady gracing the ballrooms instead of clothing for a man who would no doubt muddy them in half a day’s time.
The only customers I had seen so far were the occasional working woman who needed a new skirt or hose. And of course Maddox with his numerous garments that needed mending, which the servants of Greenwood Abbey always seemed to overlook. It was dull work, but at least it was something.
A showering of something white and flaky rained down, peppering the tops of Maddox’s shoulders. I fanned it off, frowning. The ceiling of the fitting room had started to flake, sprinkling the two of us with particles of decade-old paint as Mrs. Lewis’s thumping footsteps sounded from above.
“Good riddance,” I said miserably. Was I ever to escape this blazing building?
Maddox reached over to brush the particles from my head. “You know...one day they’ll see what you’re worth.”
I looked up, startled. His gray eyes were intent on mine, as if he knew what transpired during my appointment with Mr. de Clare.
My measuring tape drooped over his chest. I righted it quickly, hoping the sudden warmth that tinged my cheeks didn’t show.
I swore never to swoon over him again, especially after the incident.
“And what am I worth?” I said, forcing a smile.
He looked up at the cracked ceiling. “A lot more than this.”
My luck seemed to think otherwise.
Once I had taken his measurements and sketched out the pieces I was going to make him—two shirts, two waistcoats, one coat, and two pairs of breeches—I sent him on his way, disconcerted by the moment of seriousness in his manner.
***
I BEDDED DOWN AFTER taking my dinner at the inn across the street. It had been a heavy fare of potatoes, meat, and cabbage that left me feeling rather bloated, but I couldn’t refuse the jolly innkeeper who insisted on refilling my plate whenever I was a third of the way through my food.
The building was quiet when I changed into my nightgown and spread my cot on the floor of the back room; it was wearing thin in the middle where my weight had compressed the wool fluff.
I shut the door, plunging the room into darkness, shifted until I was decently comfortable, and pulled a heavy quilt over my head.
In the pitch black, I replayed Mr. de Clare’s interview in my head.
He had been so dismissive. I had expected disgust or perhaps fear at my witch identity, but indifference?
He hadn’t even seen my work.
I turned to my side. Perhaps the timing was off.
Blanche de Clare was as popular as it had ever been.
If I had managed to get Mr. de Clare’s attention even three months ago, surely I would have a spot in his department store instead of Jeraldine.
But would I have been prepared? I didn’t even have a name for my shop.
Giselle’s Dresses?
Dresses of Giselle.
Giselle’s Dress Emporium?
Something with my name and dresses.
I wasn’t cut out to name establishments, clearly. Maybe I wasn’t cut out to be here at all. The quilt was suffocating me. I threw it off my face and inhaled a lungful of cool air.
“Sleep already,” I groaned.
My sleeping habits had been decidedly ruined ever since Crown Prince Bennett and Narcissa’s engagement tour last winter.
I had stayed up till dawn countless times pouring over the latest fashion illustrations for the upper class, my mind bursting with new ideas as my hands sewed dress after dress.
I had fallen asleep to images of structured traveling coats and riding habits, ball gowns and opera finery.
Now, instead of excitement, I felt adrift. How would I be able to handle sewing anything more complicated than a plain apron while organizing my day, fashioning new window displays as new trends emerged, and scrounging up enough coin to pay rent and send to Christabella?
A chilling thought replaced my worry. Was my best work behind me?
Mrs. Lewis’s muffled footsteps creaked the floorboards above.
I tensed, hoping the horrible old woman wouldn’t come down and demand something of me.
Perhaps if I hadn’t spent all my money on furnishing my shop as quickly as possible, I would have been able to rent a room at a boarding house, which in hindsight, would have been the smarter option.
Being here in cramped quarters under Mrs. Lewis’s tyrannical rule was no better than being under Ma’s roof in Witch Village. I almost preferred Sonny and Christabella’s bickering over Mrs. Lewis’s footsteps.
I shuddered, sweeping the thought away. Surely I wasn’t missing the place I’d been so determined to leave.
Tomorrow would be a better day. I had Narcissa’s wedding dress to work on, after all.
It was going to be the dress that changed my fortune, the dress I would make not as the crown prince’s spy, not as a member of the Witch Committee, not someone who could hypnotize a man or break an enchantment when needed, but as a seamstress. Nothing more, nothing less.
With that happy thought, I closed my eyes.
Only to open them again when a loud crash sounded from above and something blunt hit my arm. The top shelf.
Blazing fires. I really did have rotten luck.