Page 1 of Bloody Lace

1

EVELYN

The bright Christmas lights twinkle on the snow outside as I hand-stitch the last of the seed pearls onto the gown that I designed especially for tonight, glancing up to check the clock on the wall to see what time it is. I need to be at my best friend Dahlia’s apartment in an hour, to start getting ready for her big night tonight, and I’m already coming in under the wire with this one. But I want it to be perfect. It meant a lot to me that she asked me to design her dress, and I can’t wait for her to see the finished product.

I hang the dress up, going over it once more for any loose threads or flaws, and then zip it into a black matte garment bag, the name of my shop emblazoned in curling gold script on the back.Pearls & Lace.My life’s dream in two words, years worth of fashion school and long nights, literal blood and sweat and tears culminating in this small building filled with silk and lace and velvet, mannequins and needles and pins, and clothing of every shape and size.

Myboutique. It means everything to me, and the fact that I was able to make my best friend’s gown tonight is the cherry on top.

I shrug into my peacoat and yank a beanie down over my hair, ignoring the fact that it’s going to frizz on account of the wool. Dahlia will have some means of fixing that—she always does—and I can’t afford to be late. Not tonight.

Grabbing the other garment bag, the one containing my dress for the evening, I hurry out to the curb, snow crunching under my boots as I flag down a cab. I was so lost in my work that I forgot to call an Uber, and now I have to put my faith in the New York City taxi service. Which is a pretty big ask, on a Friday evening the week before Christmas.

I get lucky, though—luckier than I expected. One comes along within five minutes—empty, even—and I flag it down, carefully laying the garment bags over the seat before sliding in behind them. I give the driver Dahlia’s address, and then sit back, tugging off my leather gloves to text her that I’m on my way.

Evelyn:Got a cab. Be there in thirty minutes, hopefully. If there’s no traffic jams.

Dahlia:I’ll go ahead and start on my hair. We can’t be late!!!

Leaningmy head back against the seat with a sigh, I watch the scenery pass as the driver weaves his way through traffic, a cacophony of car horns in the background. But it’s part of living in the city, and I’ve long since gotten used to it. I don’t actually know what I would do in silence, now. Probably go nuts, without the constant background hum of traffic, passersby, and vendors.

This time of year is my favorite. The city is loud year-round, but there’s an added element of joy this time of year, a festive chaos that I thrive in. I love the lights and the music and the cold, the colors and the textures. Orders that come in for theholidays are my favorite, too, always so much more luxurious and tactile than any other time of year. There’s a richness to the season that I love, and I’m never happier than I am from the end of November through the very first part of the new year.

I check my watch as the driver pulls up in front of the pre-war building that Dahlia’s apartment is in, relieved to see that we got here faster than I expected. I hand him a tip and gently scoop up the garment bags, not bothering to put my gloves back on as I slide out into the frigid air and hurry to the front door.

Dahlia buzzes me up, and I find her in her shell-pink bathroom, her blonde hair done up in rollers, squinting into the mirror as she applies her false eyelashes. “Oh, there you are!” she exclaims as I walk in, her nose wrinkling as she sees my hat. “Evelyn, what have I told you about wearing beanies?—”

“It’ll break the edges of my hair.” I yank the beanie off, ignoring the horror in Dahlia’s face when she sees the static. “It’s fine. I’m sure you have some magic product that will smooth it all over. Literally.”

“I do.” She opens a cabinet with one hand while poking the corner of her eyelash strip with the other, pulling out a silver bottle and setting it on the counter. “Curl your hair first. Then use this. It’ll put all that static right down.”

I hang up the garment bags, noting the open bottle of champagne and two flutes at one corner of Dahlia’s long bathroom counter. One flute is half-full, at her elbow, and the other is empty—presumably for me. I pour myself a glass, watching out of the corner of my eye as Dahlia applies her other eyelash.

“I’m so glad you’re going with me tonight,” Dahlia says as she glues it down, blinking rapidly. “Even if Ihada significant other to go with, this is going to be so much more fun. And so much more special, to have you there. One of those memories that I’m going to keep forever.”

“I’m happy that you asked me to go. And that you asked me to make the dress, especially.” I unzip my garment bag, taking out the dress that I picked for myself. It’s much simpler than Dahlia’s—a slinky cranberry red velvet gown that goes to the floor, hugging my figure but without any frills or adornment. It has thin straps and a slit up one side, and I’ll accentuate it with accessories, but I didn’t want to show Dahlia up in any way. Her dress is the showstopper tonight, and I didn’t want anything to take away from that.

“Who else would I ask?” She flashes me a brilliant smile. “For a night like this, I wouldn’t want a dress from anyone else.”

She plugs in a curling iron for me—I’ve never gotten the hang of hot rollers—and we sip champagne and get ready together side by side. I know the limits of my capability with makeup, so I don’t bother with the fake eyelashes or the contour that Dahlia does, transforming her face into a sculpted work of art. Instead I just do the basics, showcasing the one thing Iamreally good at—an excellent cat eye. I swipe on a thick coat of mascara, add a deep red lipstick that matches my dress, and slip on a pair of nude heels before shaking out my curls and sweeping the candy-scented gloss that Dahlia gave me to handle the frizz through them.

Dahlia is just finishing up, too, brushing through her own thick blonde curls and adding the last touches on her nude lipstick before looking at the garment bag hanging on the wall. “I’m so excited. I can’t wait to see.”

I bite my lip, reaching for the zipper. I’m actually nervous—I put an immense amount of effort into every dress that I make, but this one is special.

Dahlia gasps when I take the gown out. It’s made of dark gold silk, meant to drape over her like an old Hollywood siren’s gown, but the front is an elaborate work of art. Tulle is draped and twisted over the sheer lace that makes up the front of the gown,hiding everything that shouldn’t be seen, sculpted in waves from one shoulder all the way down to the opposite hem. And underneath every curve of the sheer gold tulle, I hand stitched tiny seed pearls that will catch the light when she moves, like froth on gold waves.

“This is insane, Evie,” she whispers, her eyes widening when she looks at the dress. “You know everyone on the museum board is over sixty, right? I’m going to give all those old men a heart attack.”

“They’ll go out happy.” I unzip the dress gently as Dahlia slides her robe off, holding it so that she can step into the dress. When it’s on, I arrange it so that it’s sitting perfectly on her slender frame, zipping up the side and fussing over the tulle to make sure it all lays just right.

“I look like I’m going onstage at an awards ceremony.”

“Youare,” I laugh, handing her the gold drop earrings that she picked to wear with the dress.

“I mean—like movie awards, or something.”

“You like it, right? It’s not too much?” I bite my lip, suddenly concerned. I’d gone all out, using the references Dahlia gave me, but now I’m second-guessing myself. We’re going to a museum, not the Oscars, and I’m suddenly worried that I overdid it.

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