Catherine’s mouth tilted in that particular sorrowful way she had. “That is for Aunt Kelmarsh,” she said. “She rather misses the elaborate floral embroideries of her younger days.”
Lucy traced the vines with one careful finger. “Myrtle?”
“For love,” Catherine said.
“And belladonna?”
“Italian forlovely lady—but it also stands for silence.”
“Because it’s poisonous.”
Catherine bit her lip. “Because a love silenced is something like death.”
A chill ran through Lucy, but not a wholly unpleasant one. She looked down again at the gorgeous, terrifying design. It would never be a popular one with the fashionable set—it wasn’t delicate or dainty or gentle enough—but it struck the eye and altered the mind, as any good painting would. “Do you have more things like this?”
“One or two. But I have never actually worked any of them. They are a bit... intense for everyday wear, I think. These others, however...”
She paged past two other glorious, blood-chilling frocks—one sea green and one ghostly gray—and revealed a sketch of an evening gown in a perfect shade of cerulean blue. White penciled-in lace gave a cloud-like fade to hem and cuffs, and the skirt had a white net overlay spangled with golden stars.
“Since you’ve made astronomy fashionable, I have been trying to create designs inspired by the heavens.”
More sketches followed: a comet dress to match Lucy’s shawl, a lighter, ladylike version of the ginger pineapple pattern, shell-like swirls in coral and peach, and a striking border design made of concentric circles and straight lines that looked Grecian to Lucy’s eye, but that Catherine claimed was based on a thought she had about telescope lenses.
The wordartistbuzzed like a bee over Lucy’s lips, but after the last conversation they’d had about art and artistry, she didn’t want to poke at what was surely still a tender spot. “You’re brilliant,” she said instead. It was easy to be emphatic when you believed every word you were saying. “I would be honored to wear anything you make.”
The next day they made the trek to the notorious Madame Tabot’s shop. Under that lady’s stern and steely eye, Lucy was fitted for four new frocks: one morning gown, a walking dress, and two evening gowns in the finest silk madame had to offer. The cuts were bold, and the fabrics deep-dyed with vivid color. Lucy was ecstatic over the thought of wearing the brightest hues she could find, though for the morning gown she did select an ivory muslin, to be embroidered with a swarm of golden bees.
For the first evening gown, thinking of Saturn’s rings and Catherine’s hands, she settled on a deep, rich blue that Madame Tabot’s shop assistant thought was far too old and dark for her maidenly years. “Non, mam’selle, the gentlemen will want you in something daintier, as light as your figure—perhaps a robin’s egg?”
“The gentlemen can go hang,” Lucy said, as the assistant gasped and dropped her packet of pins. Lucy’s determination was set, however. “I am not a songbird. I am an astronomer.”
Madame Tabot barked a laugh from her throne-like seat in the center of the shop. “Ah, a girl after my own heart. The point of fashion is not for the gentlemen: they call it trivial because they cannot bear the thought of women having a whole silent language between themselves. Bring out that newest bolt from Crewe, if you would, Frances.”
Frances recovered her pins and an expression heavy with skepticism, but did as her mistress bid. From a back corner of the shop she conjured a bolt of gold silk taffeta, shiny and lustrous as if it had been woven from pure sunshine. Madame Tabot creaked out of her throne and bobbed across the room to drape it over Lucy’s shoulder, peering critically into the mirror.
The effect of the color was astonishing; it made Lucy’s skin gleam like pearl and her hair shine like mahogany. The old seamstress’s hands moved briskly, tucking the fabric just so around Lucy’s torso and holding the shape in place until it pleased her. She nodded at Frances, who immediately began sketching the angle of the drape and the number of folds. “We keep the lines simple and strong, a bit of tulle on the bodice to soften it, a few folds along the sleeve and at the back.”
Lucy dared to reach up a hand and stroke the metallic fabric, stiff and sturdy beneath the sparkle: it might look like a gown, but she knew already it would feel like a suit of armor. Perfect for walking into a soiree and slaying society dragons.
Lucy’s eyes met Catherine’s in the mirror. “Will it do?” she asked, suddenly anxious.
Catherine’s smile was small and awed, and the heat in her gaze had Lucy’s heart pounding. “‘O for a muse of fire...’” she said softly.
Lucy’s memory supplied the next part of the quote:...that would ascend / the brightest heaven of invention. Stephen had been obsessed with that play for the space of one summer, the one before he first went away to school. He’d been reading it with the tutor their father had hired, hoping to give his son an advantage in mathematics. Albert Muchelney had also engaged a governess to teach Lucy watercolors, mostly to keep her out of trouble.
This plan had failed utterly.
By the end of the first week, Lucy and Stephen were showing each other what they’d been taught; by the second, they were sneaking each other into their lessons. Of course the governess had noticed, and reported the conspiracy to Mr. Muchelney. But he had only laughed, and increased both teachers’ pay, and insisted they teach both children.
Every evening after that, Lucy and Stephen would tromp through the wood to the top of the nearest hill, Stephen reciting all the best bits fromHenry Von the way. Once at the top, he would take advantage of the summer light to fill canvas after canvas with lurid battle scenes, heroic portraits of dying knights, and blazing shipwrecks. Lucy would fill her own pages with geometrical proofs, triangles and arcs and rhombuses carefully deciphered and measured.
It had been the best summer of Lucy’s young life—and it ended abruptly in the fall when Stephen started school. A sister went from being a best friend to being an embarrassment, a target of scorn for her mathematical bent, best ignored in favor of friends who cared more for art, war, and the high points of English history.
It was Lucy’s first experience with heartbreak, and she had been a long while recovering from it.
The modiste pulled the gold taffeta away, and Lucy blinked at the ordinary hues of the world. Her reflection diminished in the mirror, mousy and timid.
Madame Tabot clucked in sympathy. “We shall begin work at once, Miss Muchelney. You should not have to be trapped in mourning garments for one second longer than you must.” Her mouth pursed thoughtfully, and an avid glint came into her eye. “I have such a weakness for color myself, which I do not get to indulge enough in these insipid times.”
