Page 69 of Cruel Games

It was two words, but they made my heart swell with pride.

The clock bell chimed, signifying the end of class. “Excellent work, everyone. Those of you needing to make final amendments, please do so and return your garments to me before Friday. All those who have finished, please leave them in the classroom.”

I strolled to my next class, which was business studies. Fashion and Textiles was infinitely more enjoyable now that Miss Martin had banished Elizabeth.

*

On the following Saturday, Mr. McGarr drove a group of us to Glasgow City Chambers, a palatial, old building in the city center.

It stood three stories tall with a tower that stretched nearly double the height of the main structure. White spotlights illuminated its exterior, making it appear green under the glare of the moon.

Miss Martin stood. “Ladies, I want you all on your best behavior. Schools from all over the region will display their creations in front of important, high-society guests. Think of this as practice for London Fashion Week.”

Butterflies writhed in my stomach, and I turned to Maeve, who leaned forward in her seat and hyperventilated.

I gave her a pat on the back. “Don’t worry so much. We’ll just walk down a runway, display our dresses, and go home.”

Maeve ran trembling fingers through her red hair. “It’s the standing around and being auctioned that makes me feel sick.”

Grimacing, I tried not to think about that part. Instead, I focused on commiserating my loss in the Glaswegian Hotel restaurant with Kendrick over the intense level of competition at the fashion show.

We stepped out into the winter evening, and I pulled up the hood of the coat I had tailored. Its hemline skimmed my ankles, not letting in a single gust of cold. Beside me, Maeve shivered in her blue woolen jacket. After collecting suitcases filled with our garments, we made our way to the building.

As we passed through the doors and took in the marble interior, my heart galloped in my chest.

If I thought the City Chambers were palatial on the outside, it was nothing compared to the inside. Miss Martin rushed us through hallways that consisted of arches. Arched ceilings, arched columns, even the sculptures holding the chandelier lights were arched.

We hurried into a large, noisy room, separated by screens, where each school prepared for the auction and fashion show. She directed us to get changed.

“The Edinburgh School of Fashion is here,” whispered Maeve. “And the Glasgow College of Art. They’re both university level—”

“Don’t worry about it.” I pulled off my clothes and shouldered on my tuxedo dress. “Everyone will know we’re younger and less experienced.”

Maeve continued her nervous chatter, and I tried to drown her out. Even though Miss Martin had first introduced our attendance here as a competition, it was to stop Elizabeth from her deranged rampage. I was going to treat this as a practice event for bigger and better things.

“Templar Academy?” said an old lady with a steel-gray bouffant. “Follow me to the banqueting room. You’re to circle the stage, walk down the steps, and sashay down the aisle, so everyone gets a chance to see your creations.”

My stomach dropped. I’d pictured us walking across a stage and stepping forward for an auction, but this was going to be like London Fashion Week. Except we were both the designers and models.

Maeve groaned. “I’m going to die.”

“Naomi Campbell once fell on her ass, and it only gave her good publicity,” I said without feeling an ounce of the confidence in my words.

We followed the old lady through the hallway and into a vast room the size of an Olympic swimming pool. Ornate columns adorned the wall, stretching out to arched ceilings that looked plated in gold.

Music boomed out of tall speakers. About a thousand people sat on either side of a wide aisle, where young men and women paraded themselves in fashions that looked more professional than anything we had produced.

“Why is it so crowded?” I snarled.

“Parents, reporters, fashionistas.” Maeve gulped. “Not to mention Chief Constable of Police Scotland, the First Minister of Scotland, and the Archbishop of Scotland.”

“Bloody hell,” I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples. Miss Martin had made it sound like a small community event with a bunch of old ladies sipping tea.

When I opened them, I stared at the back of the most gorgeous wedding dress I had ever seen. Diamonds formed an intricate pattern of swirls over fabric so transparent, it looked like someone had stuck them on the model’s back.

The skirt consisted of heavy silk that flared out to the ground. As the model moved, the fabric shimmered, highlighting the continuation of the pattern on the bodice.

“This must be the Edinburgh School of Fashion,” I whispered to Maeve.