Bloody Fabulous by unknow

Author:unknow
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: fantasy, anthology
ISBN: 9781607013778
Publisher: Prime Books
Published: 2012-10-06T16:00:00+00:00

The Truth or Something Beautiful

Shirin Dubbin

Every emotion can be mimicked in fabric. Pride is liquid gold lamé, fit to perfection, begging to be seen and to be praised. Hatred finds its twin in fur, intemperate, born of blood and sacrifice. Death.

I’ve been stripped bare in this moment, made numb, with nothing to hold on to except my brother’s hand. Strange. I’m not sure how often losing is synonymous with death or winning constitutes a kind of murder, but I understand. My brother’s gunmetal tipped nails gouge the flesh between my fingers and we face off with our rivals, the House of Chantico.

This is how a fashion house dies.

Tonight should’ve been our comeback, the return of Nommos. All facets fell into place brilliantly, our fall collection, the buzzing of the press, and the venue. The Russian Gardens, a storied location, lauded, and equally difficult to book. Unfortunately, securing the venue required sex with the caretaker. Not fun, but he hadn’t been horrible. Although he’d seemed convinced my kumquat held a magic button within its folds and he’d kept pressing, apparently in hopes of inducing instant orgasm.

We do sacrifice for fashion, don’t we?

Yet the benefits outweighed the drawbacks. I’d been vindicated when I peeked around the flats, flanking the runway, and found a standing room audience who looked amazing. My brother, Anwar, and I had timed our show to the rising of the full moon and our crew had lit the gardens to emulate moon glow—everyone looked good in this lighting. Especially our key guests, the fashion-nobles, front row, stage right. Seated there were all those who mattered, from Wintour to Mallis.

Winter to malice might’ve been more appropriate, but I hadn’t known it then. Every facet had fallen into place so seamlessly the businesswoman in me should’ve intuited something wrong. I’d known my brother created a seminal collection and giddiness had obfuscated sensibility.

In the years after my aunt, the most famous designer in the history of Nommos, had disappeared or been kidnapped or been killed, we didn’t know which, we only knew her absence had diminished us, we’d produced several less than stellar seasons since.

My brother and I hadn’t understood the reasons until we fell. Our failure came in trying to imitate our aunt’s designs, her sense of style. We’d destroyed our house as plainly as fools dismantle logic. Surrogates do not innovate; of course our attempts came to lesser effect than her triumphs. She’d been ahead of her time and time had moved on.

With this collection we’d woken up, me on the business end. Anwar had stepped out in his own creative direction and it was ingenious. Petals of fabric made to emulate flowers, shades of the garden, paired with luxurious coats of tapestry and fur, contrasted with a bit of edge—leather in matching pale hues and a hint of hardware in zippers and buckles. Glorious. We both knew it.

At the end of the show I’d blown past the producer, blinded by my anticipation. My brother wouldn’t have noticed the foreboding looks surrounding us either.

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