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“We shall go to Castle and Sons to have a dress made. And then we shall take ourselves to Mrs. Dolling’s Sweet Shoppe.”
My grandmother wants to take me for an outing. It is fantastic! Mr. Fowlson’s threat seems no more substantial than the fog to me now. Try to frighten me, will he? I hold all the magic of the realms, and neither the Order nor the Rakshana shall know it until I’ve accomplished what I must. After all, I’ve already worked a miracle with my own family, haven’t I?
“Oh, I’ve not been to Mrs. Dolling’s in ages. So many cakes!” Grandmama blinks. “Why have I not been? It’s no matter. We shall go today and have whatever we wish and…Gemma! Why are you not dressed? We’ve so much to do!”
She does not need to ask again. I fly to gather my things, grabbing my dress so quickly that the whole of my cupboard is made a mess by my carelessness.
Grandmama and I pass the most marvelous day together. Rather than stern and fearful, she is jolly. She greets everyone—from the boy who wraps our cake to strangers in the street—with a smile and a nod. She gives a pat on the head to a shoeshine boy, who doesn’t know at all what to make of such a grandmotherly touch, as he is well past the age of eight.
“Oh, do look at those hats there, Gemma! The darling feathers! Should we see the milliner and be fitted for our own?” She veers toward the door. I hold tightly to her arm.
“Perhaps another day, Grandmama.”
Already the carriage was so laden with her purchases there was barely room for us to sit. Grandmama sent our driver back with an extra few shillings, insisting we’d take a hansom cab back to Belgravia.
“Oh, this is glorious, isn’t it? I can’t think why we shouldn’t have done this sooner!” She pats my arm. “Good day!” she calls cheerily to a milkman, who regards her warily, as if she were someone’s eccentric aunt let out of the attic. “Dear me, not terribly chatty, is he? I said, good day, sir!”
“Good day to you.” The milkman gives a careful smile and a tip of the hat but his eyes never lose their suspicion.
“Ah, much better.” Grandmama smiles. “You see? They only need a bit of encouragement to come out of their shells.”
Castle and Sons, dressmakers, lies in Regent Street, and this is where we have come to have a dress made for my debut. A harried assistant, whose hair threatens to escape from its pinnings at any moment, carries out bolts of white silk for Grandmama to scrutinize. My measurements are taken. As the tape is crossed round my bosom, the seamstress shakes her head and gives me a sympathetic smile. My goodwill vanishes rapidly. We cannot all be Gibson Girls. When every single bit of me has been measured and recorded, I join Grandmama on a divan. Bins of buttons and lace, ribbon and feathers are hastily displayed for her, and just as quickly, Grandmama sends them back. I fear I shall have the plainest dress in all of London.
The shopgirl shows Grandmama the most exquisite dress I have ever seen. A small sigh escapes me. It has a corsage of silk roses along one shoulder and short, high sleeves adorned with bows. The skirt is embroidered with delicate rose beads, and the train—which appears to be miles long—is trimmed with a beautiful fluted ruffle. It is the gown of a princess, and I long to have one like it.
Grandmama runs a hand over the beaded silk. “What do you think, Gemma?” Grandmama has never asked my opinion on any matter ever.
“I think it is the loveliest dress I have ever seen,” I answer.
“It is, isn’t it? Yes, we shall have this one made.”
I could kiss her.
“Thank you, Grandmama.”
“Yes, well, I’m sure it will be far too dear,” she grumbles. “But we are only girls once.”
When we step out into the London murk, it is five o’clock, and already the sky is darkening and the streets are thick with gas fog that makes me cough. I don’t care. I am a new girl who shall wear silk roses and carry a fan of ostrich feathers. And we shall buy cakes from the confectionary. Let the choking gas lamps do their worst!
At the corner, Grandmama and I cross the street, heading for Mrs. Dolling’s Sweet Shoppe, and that is when the world goes topsy-turvy. My skin warms. A sweat breaks upon my brow. And the magic flows through my veins like a swollen river. I am flooded by thoughts, wounds, desires, secrets. Every private longing invades my soul.
“…the long days without end. He loved me once…”
“…a beautiful home we’ll make with a lovely garden in the front…”
Can’t think. Breathe. Make it stop. I…
“…fancy a tumble with the likes of you…”
My head turns but I can’t tell which direction the offense comes from—there are too many to fight.
“…I shall offer my proposal this evening and be made the happiest of men…”
“…my poor little baby laid to rest, and do they know I am dying inside, too…”
“…a new dress with a bonnet to match…”
Please stop. I can’t. I can’t breathe. I…
