Page 68 of On Edge

The cobbles underfoot are slick with water from the drains, and the air is filled with the smell of chemicals and cleaning fluids.Fleet & Fawn, etched on one of the polished brass plates, tells me which door it is.

I press the bell and wait, trying not to freak out at the industrial bins cluttering the space to my left. Out of the corner of my eye, one of the lids is slightly ajar, with pale limbs and half a torso sticking out of it. It looks like a dismembered body.

“It’s just a mannequin,” I say under my breath.

“Yes?” A clipped voice crackles over the intercom.

“Sage Amelia Lovett, er…for a dress fitting?”

The door immediately buzzes, and I hurry to push my way inside.

The Fleet & Fawn interior is lovely, if not a little too perfect. The entire place is imbued with soft lighting, and the scent of lily of the valley lingers with every step I make on polished marble. And all around me as I walk is satin and lace, delicate gowns hanging from every rail.

A woman, elegantly dressed in a long skirt and a loose-fitting blouse, in her late fifties or sixties, greets me and introduces herself as Joules. She leads me to a cream-and-gold room and makes me sit on a velvety-soft sofa while she makes me a pot of tea.

I zone out, trying to take it all in, when Joules comes back and starts telling me the history of each wedding dress, how each one is cleaned and pressed. And how she hand stitches every bride’s name on the inner corset, so we don’t have to. It’s a tradition I never knew about, that Wychshire brides are supposed to do before our wedding day. Knowing my mother, she’ll make me sew in mine.

Silence settles, and I blink. Joules is staring at me, smiling, waiting. Wait. Was I supposed to say something?

“So, what do you think?”

What do I think of the tradition?

“There must be a lot of names,” I say slowly, voicing the first thing that comes to my mind so she doesn’t think I’m not listening.

She smiles back, but her brow furrows. “Sewn in the dresses? Yes, some have many. Most only have one name. Not all brides like the thought of having a hand-me-down dress.”

“Are they all handed down, then?”

“Nearly all Fleet & Fawn gowns are pre-owned and pre-loved, beautifully restored after being so generously donated.”

Not because anyone in Fleet, or Wychshire for that matter, is that generous or eco-conscious. No, it’s the fear of superstition that keeps a business like this afloat. But Joules looks proud that she doesn’t pay a penny for her stock.

I give her a wan smile.

“My mother said there was a dress already put aside?” Nell’s dress. But I can’t be myself to say her name out loud.

Joules looks at her day journal, an A4 leather-bound, gold-edged notebook filled to the brim with names, measurements, and stapled receipts.

“As I was saying, you already have a dress. We also have your measurements, so you actually didn’t need to come in today.”

“That was my sister. You must have her measurements.”

Joules gives me a look, like she’s confused. “Oh? I thought?”

“My sister Nell was the one who came in for the fitting.”

“Right.” Joules seems still unconvinced, but I don’t care. She stares at me for a few seconds before adding, “You do look just like her.”

I put my tea down as I get to my feet, wanting this over with already. “Everyone says that.” Well, lately they have—nothing like a dead sister to put you under the scrutiny of everyone else.

“Well, then. Shall we get you into your sister’s dress?”

Joules hangs one of the lacey monstrosities inside the fitting room and pulls the curtain around me, leaving me to change.

I stare at the gown.

It’s not Nell’s style at all. I note that Joules didn’t ask what happened to Nell or why I’m the one now getting married. She didn’t seem curious at all. Maybe she thinks my sister got to wear it before me; these are all used after all, and apparently it’s not uncommon for families to treat wedding dresses like christening gowns in Wychshire, handing them down through generations.